


Don't You Breathe For Me

by mars_morpheus



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is a Saint, As One Does, Blood, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Childhood Trauma, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Panic Attacks, Protective Alfred Pennyworth, Protective Bruce Wayne, Protective Everyone ok?, Protective Jerome Valeska, Serious Injuries, Sick Character, Sick Jerome Valeska, Stabbing, Takes place right after the diner, Title from My Chemical Romance's "Sleep", Whump, aloe vera, batjokes? in my fic?? it's more likely than you think, this is officially Novel length so ig the oneshot thing is pretty screwed, this was supposed to be a oneshot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:55:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 49,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24738847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mars_morpheus/pseuds/mars_morpheus
Summary: Bruce opened the door and saw red. Red hair, wet and plastered to a scarred forehead. Red lips, still showing the raw signs of having been burned. Red blood saturating the familiar grey-and-white uniform of Arkham Asylum. "Jerome Valeska," he murmured.“I didn’t –” His voice was even raspier than usual. “Didn’t know – where else –”
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska, Jerome Valeska & Alfred Pennyworth, Jerome Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jerome Valeska & Selina Kyle, Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Selina Kyle & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 196
Kudos: 212





	1. Chapter 1

It was a dark and stormy night, and Wayne Manor was something of a gloomy place, so when there was a loud thump at the door, the worst (or at least the weirdest) was naturally assumed.

Seventeen-year-old Bruce Wayne, being the owner of the manor and a gloomy sort of person himself, was in the middle of stirring milk into a cup of tea. His butler, Alfred Pennyworth, was with him in the kitchen. Rain was pounding down on the roof. Gotham was a rainy city, weather lining up with the unusual morbidity and high crime rate; Bruce appreciated the city’s honesty in that regard. A storm had been brewing the night his parents were shot in an alley.

When the thumping noise came from the front door, it was clearly audible from the kitchen. Bruce’s first thought was of Selina, his friend, who often came to the manor unannounced. What if something had happened to her out in this weather? He left his tea and began to rush toward the door. Alfred hurried after him. “Master Bruce! I hope you’re not thinking of opening up without checking to see who’s out there.”

“It’s probably nothing, Alfred,” he said. “I just want to make sure.”

Alfred huffed. He liked to make a big show of being tough (according to himself) or stoic (according to Bruce) or grouchy (according to Selina). “Well, all right then. Go on.”

Bruce opened the door and saw red. Red hair, wet and plastered to a scarred forehead. Red lips, still showing the raw signs of having been burned. Red blood saturating the familiar grey-and-white uniform of Arkham Asylum. “Jerome Valeska,” Bruce murmured, startled.

Alfred darted forward, putting an arm in front of Bruce protectively. “Get back from the door!”

Bruce didn’t move. He was watching Jerome, who, despite his usual manic nature, hadn’t moved yet. The escaped criminal had seemed fine earlier that night. Bruce had found him in his uncle’s diner downtown, being held down by a man twice his size while his uncle poured boiling soup down his throat. Bruce had saved him, technically. Jerome had run off into the night, seemingly alright except for his burned mouth. But now – he was just standing outside Bruce’s door, swaying on his feet, one hand clutching impotently at his bloodied left side. “I think he’s hurt,” Bruce said.

“He’s dangerous, is what he is,” Alfred snapped. “And he’s attacked us both before, so he can damned well stay out there.”

Jerome coughed and winced. His eyes blinked up toward Bruce’s, unfocused. “I didn’t –” His voice was even raspier than usual. “Didn’t know – where else –”

And with that, he collapsed. Bruce acted on instinct, stepping forward to catch him as he fell forward into the doorway; he himself nearly buckled under Jerome’s weight.

“Oh, bloody hell.” Alfred took the body from Bruce. “Well, what now?”

“Here –” Bruce closed the door with Alfred and Jerome inside, dripping onto the mat at the entrance. “Are the first aid things still in the kitchen from earlier?”

“Hold on – you’re not suggesting patching him up, are you?”

“Well, yes.”

“Absolutely not! We are calling the police, and they can take it from there.”

“He’s hurt, Alfred.”

“He’s a psychopath!”

Alfred was right, of course. But a part of Bruce had cried out at the sight of Jerome in the diner, helpless, and he couldn’t just ignore that part of himself now. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but the GCPD are just as likely to kill him as they are to arrest him. We can call when he’s stable, but for now he’s staying here.”

There was a note of challenge in Bruce’s eyes as he looked at Alfred. The butler growled and shifted Jerome’s body in his arms. “Right. Where do you want him, then?”

Getting Jerome onto the kitchen table, where they’d decided to deal with his wounds, was a two-person ordeal. He was tall and gangly, and his limp limbs made lifting him difficult. Finally, though, he was laid out on the flat surface on his back. Alfred took a pair of scissors to his stained undershirt: it was past saving by now, and taking it off normally would mean a lot more moving the body. Jerome’s eyelashes fluttered fretfully every so often, assuring Bruce that he was still alive, if barely.

Alfred’s mouth shrunk to a thin line as he assessed Jerome’s wounds, cleaning the blood away with a damp cloth. Bruce peered over his shoulder. There were four ugly, deep-looking puncture wounds, each surrounded by bruised rings. He’d been stabbed. The holes were bleeding sluggishly as his chest rose and fell. Jerome’s breathing sounded normal, at least for him: louder than was usual, but Bruce knew that was a result of the poorly-healed stab to the throat that had killed him the first time. Alfred got to work tending to the new wounds, and Bruce stood anxiously behind him, feeling that he was both in-the-way and not-helping-enough. He busied himself checking over the body for any other injuries.

His face was as it had been earlier that night. The scars had healed during this last while in Arkham, but not well: they were rough, angrier than they ought to be. They extended his mouth into a permanent smile, one that was currently red and blistered from the burns he’d suffered earlier. The gash in his throat had faded to a small, white scar, standing out against the bruises he’d received at the hands of the man his uncle had recruited to hold him down. Bruce’s eyes scanned over his torso, not wanting to miss any wound less obvious than the ones Alfred was currently working on. What was most noticeable was the bruises covering Jerome’s body: clearly, calling this “a rough night” would be an understatement. Minor cuts and scratches abounded, as well. Bruce frowned at the sight of the scars littering the body. Some were still faintly red and fading, while others were so faint and white as to be hardly visible. The majority looked old. Older than the few years since he'd become a criminal in the first place. What was it that Jerome had said in the diner? “The beatings never stopped”? Something like that.

Bruce picked up the damp cloth where Alfred had lain it on the table. He cleaned the smaller abrasions to Jerome’s skin: any infection could drastically impact his chances of recovery. Hesitating before gently dabbing at the burns on his mouth, he noted how Jerome shifted ever-so-slightly, clearly in pain. There was a bottle of aloe vera in the first aid kit. He smoothed some of its contents over Jerome’s burns with the tip of a finger. It was strange, he thought, to be touching gently someone who had pointed a gun at his head just that night.

Finally, Alfred straightened. “I think that’s as good a job as possible.” He’d stitched the wounds closed, and now they were covered in gauze and bandages that were wrapped right around the lower half of Jerome’s torso.

“Thank you, Alfred.” Bruce’s voice was serious. “Let’s try and carry him upstairs to one of the empty rooms.”

Alfred opened his mouth to argue, but shut it again without doing so. Instead, he lifted Jerome off the table. Bruce felt a little silly for having said “let’s”, as Alfred was quite strong enough to carry the body when he’d picked it up on his own terms. Bruce followed him up the wide, wooden stairs to the second floor, taking the lead once they’d reached the top. He opened the door into a room on the right side of the hallway they were now in.

It was a room Bruce didn’t go into much, having no reason to, but it would do nicely for the purpose it was now needed for. “I’ll be right back,” he said, after pulling the sheets of the bed back so that Alfred could put Jerome down. He returned within a couple of minutes. Alfred had lain the unconscious criminal out on the bed, and his red hair was now dampening the pillow it rested on. Bruce took out the handcuffs he’d gone to retrieve. He kept them for unpredictable situations such as this. With one cuff clamped around the post of the bed’s headboard and the other around Jerome’s wrist, he stepped back. Considering his injuries, that should hold Jerome fairly well if and when he woke up.

“Do you think he’ll be all right?”

Alfred had the sense not to say he hoped not. “I’ve patched him up as best I could, Master Bruce, but he’s lost a lot of blood. And we can’t know how long he was wandering around out in that weather…” Thunder rumbled outside, as if to prove his point. “It’s dicey.”

Bruce nodded and bit his lip. “I’ll keep watch. You should get some sleep, Alfred, it’s late.”

“Get some sleep?” Alfred retorted. “What, and leave you up here with a lunatic?”

“You said it yourself, he’s very weak.”

“Still, I’ll be damned before letting you sit up in this room all night by yourself.” He left and came back, pulling two chairs in from the room next door.

“Alfred –”

“Absolutely no arguments, thank you, sir. You decided to keep him here, and now it’s my job to make sure nothing terrible happens because of it.”

So Bruce sat in one of the proffered chairs. Alfred took the other, and the two sat in silence for a long while.

“Thank you, Alfred,” he said at last, referring to any number of things.

Alfred laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re very welcome, Master B.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, around noon, Bruce and Alfred were both in the kitchen again, making sandwiches for lunch. Jerome had shown no signs of waking up since last night, so they’d decided to take a break from watching him; it was largely thanks to copious amounts of coffee that Bruce hadn’t yet crashed. He almost wanted to spread coffee grounds on his sandwich like a condiment. He was about to say as much to Alfred when there was a faint noise from upstairs.

They both froze in place, making silent eye contact. There was nothing for a moment, then another, louder crash, unmistakeable in its place of origin: the upstairs bedroom where they’d left Jerome unattended. They ran for the stairs.

Alfred threw the door open first, Bruce right behind him. He looked first for the source of the crash. It was the lamp that had stood on the night table next to the bed, now shattered on the floor. Jerome was half-conscious, it seemed, pulling frantically at the handcuff around his left wrist. Bruce approached the side of the bed closest to that cuff and farthest from the broken glass. “Jerome?”

The wounded criminal looked up at him, a manic look in his eyes. He didn’t speak, uncharacteristically, but his panicked breaths sounded hoarse and laborious. He couldn’t sit up. It was a wonder he was even capable of this much exertion in his condition. Suppressing a cry, he grabbed a shard of the broken lamp from the night table and held it between himself and Bruce in one shaking hand. Alfred said something in a warning sort of tone, but Bruce didn’t hear what it was.

“Jerome,” he said, hands open in front of him. “You passed out last night. You’ve been attacked.”

Rage crept into the corners of Jerome’s face. He thought Bruce or Alfred had been the one to attack him, Bruce realised. “Not by us – you showed up here late last night and collapsed. Alfred looked after your wounds, but you’ll open them back up if you don’t relax.”

Jerome was still breathing heavily. He kept the glass shard extended as he looked down to see the top edge of his bandages, and he dug clumsily into the sheets over him with his cuffed hand to see them. Bruce hadn’t even thought to find him a different shirt to replace the one Alfred had cut off. “I’m sorry, we had to take your shirt off to access your side.” He stepped forward just a little. The action seemed to startle the redhead; he stiffened and slashed at him with the glass.

“Jerome, you’re cutting your hand.” It was true. Blood was beginning to drip from the sharp edge of the makeshift knife, but the red-haired invalid didn’t seem to notice or to care.

There was a metallic click from behind him, and Bruce turned to see Alfred with a gun in his hand, pointed at Jerome. “Put down that glass,” the butler growled.

Jerome’s breathing became even faster and shallower. The hand holding the glass shook but didn’t let go. It seemed almost as if he couldn’t let go. “Alfred, wait,” said Bruce, trying his best to maintain an even tone. “I think – I think he’s having a panic attack.”

“Be that as it may, sir, he won’t get away with threatening you.”

Bruce looked back at him, an almost pleading look in his eyes. “Just trust me. Please. Just lower the gun.”

He heard rather than saw Alfred lowering the gun. Jerome’s eyes were wide, and he seemed to be becoming aware of the damage he was doing to his hand. His other hand, the one cuffed to the bedpost, was up over his chest, clenching and releasing spasmodically. Bruce took another small step forward, expecting the returning jab of the glass. He acted fast. His hand shot out to grip Jerome’s wrist, and he squeezed down it. The hand opened, surprised, under the pressure; Bruce caught the glass shard as it fell and tossed it across the room before letting go of Jerome.

“Jerome,” he said quietly. “You’re safe. Can you try and slow down your breathing?”

Jerome glared at him and swung his fist weakly at Bruce’s head, but the dark-haired boy dodged it. He noted, too, that Jerome’s breathing was ever-so-slightly calmer than it had been. What to do? He’d read that telling a person to calm down could make panic attacks worse. Using his name might help, right?

“Jerome, can you think of five things you can see right now?” It was a technique for anxiety that he himself had used. Hopefully it would work now. It was a moment, and another missed punch, before there was any response. Then Jerome nodded, almost imperceptibly. And his breathing slowed another tiny bit.

“Okay, great. Can you think of four things you can hear right now?” No punch this time, and another small nod. “Okay. You’re doing really well, Jerome. Can you think of three things you can feel?” Yet another nod, and his breathing was almost normal. “Two things you can smell?” Jerome’s hand stopped its incessant clenching with this nod. “And one thing you can taste?” He nodded one last time, eyes regaining some of their focus.

Bruce exhaled shakily. “Are you alright?”

Jerome opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a painful-sounding scrape, and then coughing.

“Don’t try to talk, okay?”

Jerome shrugged his shoulders. It must have been horrible not to be able to speak, Bruce thought, especially for someone who talked so much usually. This was probably a result of the boiling liquid he’d had poured down his throat last night – that and the fact that he must have been out in the pouring rain for a long while.

“Do you want something to drink?” At that, Jerome nodded. His eyelids were drooping, understandably: sick as he was, he’d probably overexhausted himself. That explained his less-than-antagonistic behaviour, strange for him. “Alfred, would you get that?”

The butler didn’t say anything, but Bruce heard his footsteps echoing down the hallway. He returned half a minute later with a glass of water, which Bruce took from him and offered to Jerome. The criminal held the glass in still-shaky hands and sipped it gingerly, wincing slightly when the cold water hit his burned throat.

“There should be a few t-shirts in my closet,” Bruce said to Alfred. “Can you see if you can find one that looks like it’ll fit?”

“Yes, sir,” Alfred said.

Jerome was still working on the water when he came back with a black shirt.

“Thanks. Do you want to put this on, Jerome?”

Jerome nodded. Getting the shirt on was as much an ordeal as getting his body onto the dining room table had been last night, but they managed it eventually.

“Are you in much pain?”

Jerome shook his head with a derisive expression written across his face, then realised that sarcasm didn’t really translate into head movements. He nodded.

“I’ve got pain medication right here,” said Alfred. It was a bottle of liquid medicine, thankfully. Bruce wasn’t sure that Jerome could handle solid pills as he was. He measured the medicine into the provided cup and Jerome drank it, making a face at the flavour.

“Try and go back to sleep,” Bruce told Jerome. “I’ll check in on how you’re feeling when you wake up, okay?”

Jerome didn’t give any response to that, but he lay his head back and closed his eyes. Bruce backed away from the bed, nerves a little shot. He pulled Alfred out of the room and slid down to the floor outside in the hallway.

Alfred joined him on the ground, reaching out to grab his hand. “That was a very brave thing you did in there, Master Bruce. And very kind.”

“Thank you for trusting me, Alfred.”

They sat in silence for a moment. All was quiet inside the bedroom. “Well,” said Alfred, finally. “I think we’ve got a couple of well-deserved sandwiches waiting for us downstairs, eh?”

Bruce smiled. “Absolutely.”


	3. Chapter 3

Jerome was out for hours, again, until the morning of the second day. Bruce and Alfred had each taken a shift guarding him; Bruce had chosen to stay outside the door, feeling somehow uncomfortable with actively watching Jerome sleep. He’d entered the room a few times, though, when he heard muffled speaking coming from inside. Of course Jerome talked in his sleep. It was good to know that his throat was healing well, at least.

Bruce had a glass of water and the pain medication with him when Jerome finally woke up. He wasn’t sure what to expect now that the invalid wasn’t mid-panic-attack. Thinking back to when Alfred had been stabbed, years ago, he realised that he hadn’t actually seen much of the older man’s healing process: Alfred put on a tough face and a younger Bruce hadn’t ever seen past it. With Jerome, unstable as he was, anything could happen.

Jerome cracked one eye open and grumbled sleepily when Bruce entered the room. “How are you feeling?” he asked, standing a little awkwardly at the foot of the bed with the water and medication in his hands.

“Never better,” Jerome scraped out. “I always love a good full-body ache, really brings me back to the joys of childhood.” He coughed, free hand covering his wounded side.

“Here.” Bruce measured out the correct dosage of medicine and handed the little cup to Jerome, keeping maximum distance between them just to be safe. “Your throat seems better,” he offered.

Jerome swallowed the medication. “Yeah, well, it’s had worse.”

“You’re referring to being stabbed.”

“Obviously.” He coughed again. “So, I’m assuming this isn’t a social call. What am I doing here?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce said honestly.

Jerome raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re saying this isn’t your house?”

“You showed up here two nights ago, severely injured, and Alfred and I have been looking after you since then.”

“Right, you said that, didn’t you? Last time I was awake.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t do anything too embarrassing, did I? My short-term memory’s pretty shot.” He grinned, less genuine and more to show teeth.

Bruce decided not to mention the panic attack. “Are you hungry?”

“Why?” Jerome’s smile stayed, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “If you’re trying to get rid of me, there’s no point in wasting good poison when I’m like this.” He gestured to his prone body.

Bruce frowned. That’s right – the last time he’d been offered food, it had been used against him by his uncle. “I don’t want to do anything to you, Jerome. You’ll feel better if you’re not malnourished.”

“Bullshit. You wouldn’t be – _helping_ me – if there wasn’t something in it for you.”

“You don’t have to trust me, but truly, I just couldn’t let you die. I couldn’t have that on my conscience.”

“Well, that’s stupid.” Jerome chuckled hoarsely. “You do remember me holding a knife to your neck, right?”

“Or, more recently, pointing a gun at my head.”

The killer shook his red head. “You’re a weird kid, Brucie. Hey, how old are you now, anyway?”

“Seventeen.”

“Really!” Jerome held a hand to his chest in exaggerated surprise. “Guess I can’t go ‘round calling you a little kid anymore, hey?”

“Did you often?”

Jerome didn’t answer the question. “You know, I was your age when I killed my parents. Course, for me that was only ‘bout a year ago.”

He was grandstanding now, clearly, trying to cling to what control he could. Bruce hadn’t realised that Jerome was only a year older than him now, though. It made him think – if he himself had been sent to Arkham at his age, how would he have coped? Then again, that was probably exactly what Jerome wanted him to be thinking about. Bruce couldn’t let his hero complex get the best of him.

“I’ll be right back,” he told Jerome, before making his way down the hall and the stairs and into the kitchen.

“Do you need something?” Alfred was already there.

“What do you think he’d be all right to eat? Probably not solids, right?”

“Yeah,” Alfred said, sounding a little surprised at the question. “Probably. Here, why don’t you go back up to guard him, and I’ll put something together?”

“All right.” Bruce paused on his way out of the kitchen. “Alfred – when you were stabbed, what – what was it like?”

“Very painful,” he responded. “For a long while, no amount of meds would make it go all the way away. But really, Master Bruce, I’d be more worried about Mr. Valeska getting sick than anything else.”

“Right.” Something occurred to him. “Oh, Alfred, could you make smoothies, actually?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you, Alfred.” Bruce hurried back up to the bedroom.

Jerome was fiddling with the handcuff tethering him to the bedpost when Bruce re-entered the room. At least, he had been before hearing the younger boy’s quiet footsteps in the doorway – he stopped and pretended half-heartedly to be asleep then. “What’s up?” he called, eyes closed.

Bruce assumed that the question was rhetorical. “Are you feeling any better?”

“What, the gaping holes in my side? Yeah, best I’ve ever felt.”

“I’m sure.” He rolled his eyes. “How’s your immune system, incidentally?”

“What?” Jerome looked at him askance. “My immune system? Oh, so you _are_ going with poison. Not exactly your most economical option, but I guess you don’t gotta worry ‘bout that, being a billionaire.”

“I’m not going to poison you. I just don’t know how long you were out in the rain the other night, and if you get sick it could be really bad.”

“Couldn’t you just ask me how long, if you’re so smart?”

“I’ve been getting the sense that you don’t remember, but sure, tell me.”

Jerome scowled. Clearly, he didn’t remember. “Whatever. Pick on the bedridden invalid. Chivalry’s really dead, eh, Brucie?”

“I’m almost surprised you know the word.” Bruce arched an eyebrow.

“Oh!” Jerome half-laughed, half-coughed. “Getting tired of my shit, billionaire boy?”

Bruce was about to rise to the bait when he heard a knock on the doorframe. Alfred was there, holding a tray (not really necessary, but he always used them) with two glasses full of pink smoothie. There was a straw in each; Alfred passed the blue-strawed glass to Bruce and, with some degree of discomfort, the red-strawed one to Jerome. The injured criminal took the glass with equal hesitance.

“It’s strawberry-banana,” Alfred informed him, noting Jerome’s suspicion. “Nothing unseemly done to it.”

Bruce nodded at Alfred as he left again, then stood up from the chair he was sitting on. Jerome was still eyeing his smoothie, clearly torn between his distrust and how hungry he must be. Bruce held out his own glass. “Here, we can trade if you’d like. That way you know it’s safe.”

Jerome narrowed his eyes at him, but took the proffered glass anyway. Bruce took a sip from what had been Jerome’s – it was good, of course, since Alfred had made it. After a moment of nothing happening to him, the red-haired boy did the same. His eyes widened just slightly. “Jeez, that’s almost worth getting poisoned for.”

“I didn’t know if your throat could handle solid food yet, and I figured soup was pretty much off the table.” Bruce smiled.

“Hey, my throat’s tougher than you’ll ever be.” He took another sip of smoothie. “I mean, c’mon, if I wasn’t cuffed to the bed I’d be outta here already. Let’s see you get stabbed and keep on going.” Another sip. “Though, actually, I was impressed the other night. You can really throw a punch for a little rich boy.”

“Thanks.” Bruce had to remember that Jerome was just trying to get under his skin. He was probably still concerned about poison – that or he was just self-conscious about accepting help. It didn’t make him less abrasive, but it did help Bruce control himself. Mostly. Even with that consideration, he had to bite his tongue to keep from pointing out Jerome’s own obvious lack of any combat skill.

Once they’d both finished their smoothies, in relative silence, Bruce spoke again. “I need to check your stitches, if that’s all right.”

“What’s there to check?” Jerome reached over with some effort to place his glass on the night table next to him. “Except for _me out_ , that is.” He coughed.

“Just to make sure you haven’t opened them up again. Now’s probably the best time, since the medication you took should have hit full strength a little while ago.”

“This is full strength?”

Bruce nodded, remembering what Alfred had told him – that no matter what you took, the pain didn’t fully disappear.

“Jeez. How ‘bout if I just check myself?”

“You won’t be able to see the wounds well enough.”

“That’s fine, if I die you can say you did what you could.”

“But I wouldn’t have. Just let me look, Jerome.” He made serious eye contact. “Please.”

Jerome sighed and then coughed. “Fine. Just ‘cause you asked so nicely.”

Bruce stepped forward toward the bed and perched on the edge of it. He could feel the tips of his ears heating up from awkward embarrassment as he pulled down the bedsheets and pulled up Jerome’s shirt just enough so that he could reach the bandage. The tips of his fingers accidentally brushed against skin, and Jerome flinched. “Sorry,” he said, finding the end of the bandage to loosen it.

Jerome snorted but didn’t say anything. Still, he continued to recoil, almost unnoticeably, every time Bruce accidentally touched him.

The wounds were red and angry, stitches intact but obviously out of place pulling the torn flesh together. Dried blood spotted the gauze and the skin beneath it. Bruce, unqualified as he was, didn’t notice any immediate problem, so he replaced the gauze and bandage, then the shirt and blanket.

“Looks alright,” he said. “You have a lot of scars, though – I couldn’t help but notice.”

“Couldn’t you?” There was a new flavour of hardness to Jerome’s eyes.

“They looked old. Really old.”

“Well, then, they’re not relevant anymore, are they?” Clearly this was a soft spot with Jerome. Bruce would ask him about it later.

Just then, Jerome brought his right arm over to scratch at his cuffed left wrist. Bruce’s attention was drawn to the area, and his brows drew closer together at what he saw. “Your wrist – is that –”

The older boy covered his wrist defensively with his other hand. “Is it what?” he snapped.

“You gave yourself those scars, didn’t you?” Bruce’s voice was quiet.

“None of your business, billionaire boy. Keep your eyes to yourself.”

Bruce drew back for a moment, then pulled back his own sleeve, extending it to Jerome palm up. His own scars weren’t the same as Jerome’s – they were neater, arranged into straight lines, where the killer’s were scattered over his skin at all angles – but they, too, were self-inflicted. It had been soon after his parents had died. He’d burned a circular scar into his palm with a lit candle, held matches to his arm, done all sorts of things to try and convince himself that he was conquering his fear. It hadn’t worked.

Jerome’s eyes flicked over Bruce’s arm for a second. “What are you trying to do? Prove that _we’re not so different, you and I_?” he asked in a mocking voice. “You’re not gonna get anywhere trying to bond over shared traumas or whatever. You probably did that when mommy and daddy got shot, didn’t you?”

Bruce recoiled. This Jerome was a far cry from the joking, carefree one he was used to.

“You did. Poor little rich boy, nothing and nobody in the world except your house and your money and your company and your butler, right? Cry me a river. You wanna know how I got these scars? I told you, didn’t I? I spent my whole life getting beat up by my uncle and my mom and all her goddamn boyfriends, that’s how I got them. And then on top of that, yeah, I cut. You wouldn’t even – you had someone to blame, you knew whose fault it was. I got told I was the problem _my whole life!_ ” He sent himself into a coughing fit.

Bruce sat in stunned silence. He hadn’t meant any offence, only to help, but he’d done exactly the opposite of what he’d intended. “Jerome –”

“It doesn’t matter,” the older boy snapped hoarsely.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said, not sure what else to say. “I’ll leave you alone.”

He left the room with his head low.


	4. Chapter 4

“Master Bruce,” said Alfred, catching Bruce’s arm as they switched places again. “Mr. Valeska is asleep now, but he seemed very – quiet, I suppose – while awake. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”

Bruce frowned and didn’t answer, instead passing into the bedroom. He sat down on one of the two chairs inside. After the last interaction he’d had with Jerome, he almost hoped the older boy remained unconscious for the duration of Bruce’s shift. He hadn’t expected the kind of outburst he’d been hit with – or the emotional honesty, really. It seemed as though since the diner something had changed. Bruce couldn’t stop thinking of Jerome as more human than he ever had. Some growing part of him saw the killer as just a boy, his own age, who’d been hurt more than anyone should ever have to be. It made him uncomfortable.

Jerome began to stir around an hour into Bruce’s shift. Half-asleep, his free arm drifted up toward his wounded side: it was probably time for more medication. He made an inarticulate groaning sound, and Bruce saw his eyes flutter open.

“Hello, Jerome.” Maybe not the smoothest thing to lead with, but he felt as though he ought to say something.

The criminal groaned again. “Whaddyawant.”

“You can have more medicine if you’d like.”

He nodded, and Bruce passed him the little cup as usual. “I –” He paused. “I wanted to apologise for our last conversation. I shouldn’t have pressed the issue.”

Jerome, halfway through swallowing the medicine, choked and started to cough. A few moments later, he spoke. “It’s whatever, billionaire boy. You don’t gotta walk on eggshells all the time.”

“Force of habit.” Bruce shrugged, taking the figurative extended olive branch.

“I always wondered,” said Jerome, changing the subject. “If being left in charge of all your fancy stuff was what made you act like a little robot, or if that was just a, uh, a predisposition.” He had to search for the long word.

“I’ve often considered the same question myself, to be honest.”

“Not so much a _little_ robot, though, anymore. How tall are you?”

“Five-nine.”

This was just something Jerome did, it seemed. He’d engage in friendly, if not strictly polite, conversation, and then with no warning he’d flip a switch and lash out. “Five-nine! That’s not too tall, actually. You better not grow much more – can’t have my favourite volunteer getting taller than me, can I?”

“If you don’t stop jerking around, that’s exactly what’s going to happen,” said Bruce, noticing the exaggerated arm motions with which Jerome chose to punctate his speech.

The criminal squinted at him. “I don’t get it.”

“Five-nine is a lot taller that six-feet-underground.” Dammit, that sounded like a threat.

“What, are you gonna kill me for talking with my hands?”

“No, I just meant that if you pop your stitches it’s not going to be good.”

“I think you oughtta be more worried about me getting your nice sheets messy than about me overacting my way into an early grave. Again.”

“Oh, I didn’t even think – you probably need to use the washroom!” Bruce was embarrassed.

Jerome coughed again. “Not what I meant. I mean, yeah, but not _at all_ what I was talking ‘bout.”

“I guess that means you’ll have to somehow stand up.” Bruce was focused on the washroom situation. “I’ll help you,” he said, moving toward the bed.

The older boy looked at him like he was out of his mind. “I can stand up on my own, thanks, Brucie. Only problem is I’m a little attached to the bed.”

“Right.” Bruce had a key in his pocket that would unlock the cuff around Jerome’s wrist. He used it, hoping that he wouldn’t take the opportunity to try and run away. Even if he did, he wouldn’t get far, Bruce thought, stepping back.

Jerome twisted his body over, toward the edge of the bed, and winced. “I got it,” he said, holding Bruce off with one outstretched hand. One leg made its way successfully out from underneath the covers. He tried to sit up, and immediately flopped back down onto the pillow. “Never mind. I’m just gonna lie here until I decompose, on second thought.”

Bruce held out a hand. “Come on, I’ll help you up. It’s not like this is going to destroy your badass image,” he said, in response to the doubtful look he received. “First of all, you’re mortally injured. Second of all, we had strawberry smoothies yesterday, so accepting a hand up isn’t the straw that’s going to break your back.”

“Fine.” Jerome took his hand reluctantly. With some considerable effort, they managed to get him up to his feet; Bruce braced himself under Jerome’s hand as he caught himself on the dark-haired boy’s shoulder.

“Okay, there’s a washroom through here,” Bruce said, moving toward the door into the adjoining washroom.

“Great.” Jerome was moving very slowly. “I’ll be there in fifty years.”

“You can shower if you want,” he offered. “And change out of your Arkham pants.”

The red-haired criminal sighed and coughed. “Might as well, I guess. You know they say horizontal stripes are never flattering.”

“I’ll find you something to put on.” Bruce smiled to himself. Rationally, he knew that convincing an infamous serial killer not to argue with him wasn’t exactly cause for celebration. It still felt like a win, though.

“Whatever.”

They reached the bathroom door and Jerome shifted his weight from Bruce’s shoulder to the doorframe. Bruce checked to make sure there was a towel in the cabinet; there was, and considering Jerome’s state, he decided to hang it over the bar next to the shower. Then he left, closing the door behind him.

It took him a while to find a pair of pyjama pants that he thought would fit Jerome. He grabbed another black t-shirt, too, just to be safe, and then headed back to the bedroom. The shower turned off as he entered the room; he knocked on the washroom door to let Jerome know that the clothes were just outside it. Then he returned to his chair on the other side of the bed.

The door creaked open a minute or so later, and the clothes were pulled inside. Another few minutes and the door was swung all the way open in one violent slam. “Not to be irritatingly useless on main,” said Jerome, fully dressed. “But would you mind letting me lean on you again?”

“Of course.” Bruce approached him, noticing that he was slightly bent over and clearly trying not to hold his side. This time, Jerome put an arm around the younger boy’s shoulders. It distributed his weight more evenly. Bruce felt as though it also signified a certain degree of increased trust, almost, though he knew that this was foolish.

Getting Jerome back into bed was more work, if possible, than getting him out in the first place. Ultimately, they had to arrange a sort of slow lowering process that worked, but not well. The red-haired boy ended up back where he’d been lying eventually. “Jeez, that’s a hassle,” he scraped out, voice hoarse. “Remind me not to get stabbed any more times, yeah?”

Bruce smiled.

“Hey! He does smile!” Jerome laugh-coughed. “Maybe you’re not a robot after all.”

“You seem to be in a good mood.” It was true – the excursion out of bed seemed to have done wonders.

“I get a rush from moving around,” he explained. “Also killing, but that’s not really related.”

“Not really.” Bruce smiled again. “Get some rest, and next time you’re awake I’ll bring food.”

“Whatever,” Jerome said. He clearly didn’t want to express any emotion, but his eyelids drooped. In his condition, even a little activity would tire him out. “Y’know, I can break out any time.”

“Of course,” responded Bruce, leaving the handcuff off Jerome’s wrist regardless. It was foolish, probably, but it felt like the right thing.


	5. Chapter 5

Halfway through Alfred’s turn watching Jerome, Bruce walked past the door and did a double-take. He stood in the doorway, silently watching the scene before him: Jerome, holding himself half-up on his elbows, was glaring silently at Alfred, who was staring back with his legs crossed primly where he sat on the chair. It was like a sort of hostile staring contest.

Bruce knocked on the doorframe and Alfred broke eye contact to turn and look at him. “Master Bruce,” he said, indignantly. “Is it true that you let him out of that cuff and then didn’t put it back on?”

“Yes.”

“And why on earth did you do that?”

“He can hardly walk, Alfred.” Bruce stepped further into the room. “The cuff was more symbolic than useful.”

Jerome was still burning holes into Alfred’s head with his eyes. “I _told_ you I don’t know how to pick handcuffs, grandpa.”

Alfred made an exasperated face in Bruce’s direction. “Alfred,” the dark-haired boy said. “Would you mind talking to me out in the hallway for a minute?”

The butler obliged, standing up from the chair and walking briskly over to join Bruce, who closed the bedroom door between them and Jerome. “Master Bruce, I know you’re only trying to help that man, but you must remember he’s a serial killer! He’s gone after both of us before, and he may well again.”

“I know.” Bruce sighed. “It’s just that – he’s not even a man.”

“More monster than, you mean?”

“No. Alfred, he’s only eighteen. He’s a year older than I am.”

The butler paused. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Bruce nodded. “He was seventeen when he died, and technically he didn’t age after that until he was brought back.”

“I worry, Master B. You have a habit of getting too close to fire.” He took Bruce’s hand, reminding him of the round candle scar.

“I know I do. But I’ve been thinking about it, and he’s been hurt so much. You saw all his scars. I’m not sure anyone’s ever been kind to Jerome.” Bruce looked up at Alfred with sad eyes. “I think I can help him. We can help him.”

Alfred’s confliction was written all over his face. “I trust you. I don’t trust him, but if you really think you need to do this, I won’t stand in your way.” He sighed. “Just promise me that you’ll pull away before you get burned, all right?”

“I promise.” Bruce smiled. “I’ll go back in there and deal with Jerome. Do you think you could put together something soft to eat?”

“I’ll do my best.” Alfred’s returning smile was somewhat strained as he turned away to walk toward the kitchen.

“I should have let him know,” Bruce said upon re-entering the bedroom. “I’m sorry.”

Jerome was lying back, hands clasped over his chest. “Eh, I can’t help it that I’m so intimidating and awesome.” There was a sharp edge to his tone that Bruce was quickly learning to identify.

“How are you feeling?”

He made a noise that was more like than unlike the noise Chewbacca made in Star Wars. “Like I got a shark chomping my insides. Same old. Jeeves gave me meds, that’s how he noticed the cuff situation.”

“Otherwise alright?”

“Bored half to death.” Jerome snorted. “As much as I do love my own company.”

“I could bring you something to read,” offered Bruce.

Jerome’s hands, which he had begun using to mime conducting an orchestra, stilled. He raised an eyebrow at Bruce. “Do I look like a guy who reads?”

“Um –”

“Don’t bother answering that. I’m not a big book guy, to tell you the truth. More of an arson guy. Or a murder guy. Or a using-scissors-for-things-they’re-not-meant-to-be-used-for guy.”

“Well, what things would you do that are a bit less destructive?”

Jerome laughed, which, as usual, made him cough. “I’m a destructive person, Brucie, what do you expect? A secret love of knitting?”

“I don’t know, do you secretly love knitting?”

The older boy made a face. “No.”

“I think I have some audiobooks.”

“That’s not a real word,” Jerome scoffed.

“Books on tape. And I could try and find some paper and pencils?”

There was a pause. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’ll be right back.” Bruce ran down the hallway and made his way to the library, where he knew there was a small stash of audiobooks on a lower shelf. He’d listened to them as a child, and had added somewhat to the collection over the years at Selina’s behest. Now, locating a notepad and a rarely-used package of coloured pencils, he picked a few of the tapes off the shelf and returned to the bedroom.

“Here’s the drawing stuff,” he said, passing the paper and pencils to Jerome. “I brought _The Outsiders, The Hobbit_ , and _The Hunger Games_.”

“All starting with ‘the’,” Jerome remarked. “Nice and consistent.”

Bruce smiled. “I didn’t notice. Do you have a preference?”

“I’ve heard of most of those, but I’m not so familiar with the concepts.”

“Right.” Bruce hadn’t thought that somebody might be unfamiliar with all of the stories – after all, they were wildly popular, to his knowledge. “The Outsiders is about gang members in the 1950s, The Hobbit is a fantasy book about a – well, a hobbit – who goes on an adventure to take a mountain back from a dragon, and The Hunger Games is…” To be honest, he wasn’t familiar with it either. It was the most recent of the books and one of Selina’s. “I don’t really know. I think mostly it’s about the government and people dying.”

“Sounds like my style.”

Bruce put the first disc in the set into the player already in the room. Just before he could press play, Alfred came in with another tray, this one with two bowls on it. He didn’t say anything, passing the tray to Bruce and nodding vaguely in Jerome’s direction before leaving. Bruce passed one of the bowls and a spoon to Jerome, who balanced it on the notepad he was balancing on his chest. The bowls contained oatmeal. Bruce had to smile at the sight of the notorious criminal panting around a too-hot bite, despite his worry about the burns already on Jerome’s mouth.

“‘S hot,” Jerome rasped at length, making an exaggerated face.

Bruce smiled again and pressed play.


	6. Chapter 6

Two weeks later, not much had changed. Jerome was out of bed, at least, though he was largely confined to a wheelchair. The dynamic around the manor had evened out: Alfred was trying as best he could to act friendly with the redhead, and Selina hadn’t been around in a while. It would have been nice to hear from her. Jerome, for his part, had agreed to keep his butler-directed jumpscares to a minimum after a few “near-death experiences” (his words, not Bruce’s). His main trouble was that he couldn’t roll his chair downstairs, and he couldn’t walk up the stairs very well, so he had to commit to one floor. It was almost nice to have him around. He made the house feel significantly less empty, what with his propensity for making as much noise as he possibly could.

Currently, for instance, it was midafternoon, and Bruce could hear the muffled rolling of Jerome racing himself around the upstairs hallways in his chair. He ascended the stairs to check that the injured criminal wasn’t doing anything extra dangerous. Reaching the second floor, he caught the sound of rolling and Jerome’s growly voice talk-singing to himself from somewhere down the left-hand hallway.

“Jerome?” he called.

The rolling got louder as the wheelchair approached at a rapid speed. Jerome’s arms were moving far too violently for his own good, in order to keep going as fast as he was; Bruce stepped off to the side of the hallway to avoid being hit. The redhead made a quiet “oop” noise as he skidded past. Clearly, braking was a work in progress. Bruce lunged for the back handles of the chair and was barely able to pull it to a stop without being dragged along himself.

“If you don’t pop your stitches, you’re going to smash your skull,” Bruce informed him.

Jerome was laughing uproariously. “If I die doing a badass drift, it’s totally worth it!”

“Agree to disagree, I suppose.” He was learning to roll with the older boy’s often-erratic conversation style.

The wheelchair spun out of his hands and rotated so that Jerome was facing him, laughter replaced with a dead-serious expression. “Tell me a secret.”

“What?”

“A secret, something nobody else is s’posed to know.”

Bruce tilted his head. “Just any secret? Why?” What was Jerome’s plan? Certainly, he had one. He couldn’t forget – for all that they were getting along at the moment, the redhead was still dangerous, and clever enough to come out on top of any situation. Except, of course, the one where he’d been stabbed.

“Not just _any_ , a good one! You know, something really juicy.”

Bruce swallowed a small smile. So, he was looking for some kind of blackmail material, was he? Well, it wasn’t going to pay off. “Maybe later.”

“Oh, you’re such a tease.” Jerome groaned. “You hold a guy prisoner and you won’t even tell him anything fun? Cold, Brucie. You related to that Freeze guy or something?”

“I think that blackmail material would only be fun for you. And it’s just Bruce.”

“I’ll believe that when I say it myself.”

“How are you feeling?” Bruce changed the subject. “Aside from hyperactive and homicidal.”

“Aw, you know me so well! Hm. Well, I was just now talking to myself about beans, so I guess you could say I _can_ ’t really tell you.”

“That was a lazy deflection. Would you like some medicine?” His side was hurting, clearly. Often, questions were answered simply by whether Jerome was joking or actually answering.

“Buzzkill.” The redhead huffed. “Yeah, sure.”

Bruce took hold of the wheelchair’s handles to take them both to the bedroom, where Jerome was staying without as much supervision now.

“I can take myself,” Jerome snapped. “All I got was stabbed, no big deal. Not my fault you kidnapped me over it.”

They began to move down the hallway, Bruce stepping out just in front and to the side of Jerome. “I hardly kidnapped you. You showed up here half-dead.”

“Oh, well, excuse me for assuming that being constantly watched and handcuffed to things meant I was being held prisoner.”

“You’re so dramatic.” Bruce laughed softly.

“Thanks, it’s the emotional trauma! You’re still a little robot, anyway, so you’re one to talk.”

“Because the only two options are robotic and manic.”

“Uh, yeah, pretty much.” They arrived at the bedroom and Jerome wheeled himself toward the nightstand. The little table’s drawer was locked, with the bottle of painkiller inside it – Bruce carried the key. He hadn’t been totally sure that Jerome could be trusted with access to that much medication. “Toss me the sauce, C-3P0!”

“C-3P0?” Bruce unlocked the drawer and went about measuring out the medicine. “Isn’t that the gold android from Star Wars?”

“It’s just droid,” Jerome corrected him, long fingers drumming impatiently on the arms of the wheelchair. “He’s polite, always worried about stuff. Shiny.” He threw the medication back like a shot.

“Don’t call me C-3P0, Jerome.”

“Sure, sure, whatever you say, ‘3P0.” He stood and moved over to sit on the bed, propped up against pillows. “Would you prefer Peeta?”

What? “No. Why would I prefer being called Peeta instead of just my actual name?”

“Cause Peeta is way cooler than you, obviously.” They’d finished the Hunger Games audiobook within about a week. Jerome was surprisingly interested in the plot and characters – he’d professed a feeling of relation to Haymitch, the chronically-drunk mentor character. Personally, Bruce would have liked to think of himself as being most like the main character, Katniss, but Jerome had informed him, unprompted, that he was ‘definitely Peeta’, the love interest. There had also been a few incidents with makeshift bows and arrows following the end of the audiobook.

“If you call me Peeta, I’m going to start calling you Effie,” Bruce warned, referring to the book’s style-obsessed TV presenter.

“Effie?” Jerome protested. “No way!”

“I mean, you do focus a lot on showmanship. And televised murder.”

The redhead pretended to fluff a big, puffy wig like Effie wore and made a prissy face. “And may the odds be evah in your favah!” He made his voice high and put on the accent that the character was described as having. Then he leaned forward, just serious enough that Bruce couldn’t be sure whether or not he was being sincere. “You don’t wanna start a nickname competition with me, billionaire boy. Or any competition, actually, I have a bad habit of eliminating my opponents.”

Right. Serial killer. Selina would probably shrug that kind of comment off and say something witty. Well, Selina wouldn’t have gotten herself into anything close to this situation.

“Anyway,” continued Jerome, letting himself fall back onto his pillows. “You still owe me a secret.”

“I’m not telling you a secret, Jerome.”

“Truth-or-dare, then.”

Bruce stared at the older boy for a moment, then decided that this was a relatively-safe turn of events, and one that was fairly controllable. Probably. “Fine.”

“You go first, truth or dare?” Jerome grinned like the Cheshire cat.

“Dare,” Bruce responded, hoping that whatever he had to do wasn’t too ridiculous.

“Hm…” Jerome acted deep in thought, drumming his fingers against nothing but the air. “Oh! I dare you to do a handstand.”

A handstand? Really? He wasn’t sure what Jerome could possibly be planning with a handstand. So he backed up, to the foot of the bed, and tilted forward onto his hands. It wasn’t hard. His training (and the amount of time he’d spent with Selina) made sure of that. His thick sweater started to fall down – or up, really – after a few seconds, just as he swung himself back up to standing. Jerome raised his eyebrows as if he was impressed; Bruce ran a hand through his rumpled hair and pulled the ever-present chair over beside the redhead.

“Huh, didn’t think you’d actually pull it off.” Jerome shrugged. “My turn.”

“Okay, truth or dare?” Bruce asked, wondering if he ought to pinch himself awake.

“Dare.” Of course he’d pick dare. Now what?

“Um –” He hesitated, trying to think of something safe but not too boring. “I don’t know, write your name? In the air, with your nose.” Kind of stupid, but not immediately harmful.

Jerome laughed, and the following cough was better than it often was. “Where’d you pull that out of?” But he still sat up a little straighter and, with a look of comically intense concentration on his face, began to move his nose around in the air. It was impossible to tell whether or not he was actually spelling his name, but it didn’t matter. Bruce laughed quietly in spite of himself.

“Alright, that was pretty funny,” Jerome admitted. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.” Probably not the wisest choice, but he could always pass or lie if it was really necessary, couldn’t he?

“Say you’re in a fight with some guy, somebody you care about.” He’d clearly thought of this question beforehand. “And it’s him or you, right? Do you kill him or give up?”

Bruce’s eyebrows drew close together. It was a scenario he’d faced before, with Ra’s Al Ghul. And he’d taken the easy way out – he’d killed. It wasn’t exactly a secret, though. Jerome probably just wanted to make him admit his own weakness. Well, he’d show him it would take more than that to get to him.

“I kill him.” He kept his gaze level, maintaining eye contact with Jerome, whose scarred smile widened. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“If you could only ever kill one more person, who would it be?”

The scarred skin around Jerome’s eyes tensed before he resumed smiling dangerously. “Tough call, Brucie. Either Jimbo –” Jim Gordon. He’d arrested him the first time, hadn’t he? “Or – well, somebody else.”

“Who?”

“You only get one question!” He waved his index finger disapprovingly at Bruce. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” he responded, not wanting to escalate the ‘truth’ situation further just yet.

“Ooh!” Jerome’s eyes lit up with a mischievous gleam. “You got Jimmy’s number, right? Prank call him!”

“Wait, I don’t think –”

“You chickening out?” the redhead asked, darkly.

Bruce met his eyes. This was a challenge. “No. I’ll do it.” He pulled out his cellphone from his pocket and reluctantly dialed in Detective Gordon’s number. Luckily, his own contact would show up as “No Caller ID”, so he might hope not to be recognised.

“Put it on speaker,” Jerome demanded as the phone began to ring through.

“Wait, what do I even say?”

“Hello?” That was Gordon. Bruce had to think fast.

He put on a different voice, lower with a thick city accent. “Uh – Gotham crematorium. You kill ‘em, we, uh, grill ‘em. This is – this is Gluestick –” Gluestick? What? “How can I help you?”

“Excuse me?” Gordon sounded confused. Jerome was trying to stay silent while also cackling.

“I said, Gotham crematorium, you –”

“No, I heard you. I think you’ve got the wrong number.”

“Uh, sir, you called us.” Bruce swallowed a laugh.

“…What?” The utter bewilderment in Gordon’s voice nearly blew Bruce’s cover.

“Yeah, uh, you called the crematorium, man. You wanna schedule an appointment or not?”

“Not…?”

That did it for Bruce. He couldn’t stop himself from cracking up, and both he and Jerome were laughing.

“This is a prank call, isn’t it?” said Gordon, sounding tired.

“I’m – sorry –” Bruce managed to get out around his laughter. “Sorry, Detective!”

“Bruce? Is that you?” Oh no. “Who’s that with you?”

“Uh –” He backpedalled. “No, it’s just me, Gluestick! Uh, have a great day!”

He hung up. There was another few moments in which Bruce tried to get himself under control, while Jerome didn’t seem to be putting in an effort at all. Finally, the redhead stopped laughing with a wince and a hand to his side.

“Are you okay?” Bruce asked, a little concerned.

“Didn’t know you had a sense of humour, Brucie!” Jerome grinned. “You’re gonna make me split a seam, literally!”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Eh, truth.” That probably meant that he’d hurt himself laughing more than he was letting on.

“Okay, well, what’s the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you at school?” Pretty safe, right?

“Nothing.” Surprisingly succinct.

“Nothing? Really?”

“I, ah, didn’t go.”

Bruce was taken aback. “You never went to school?”

“Yeah, well,” said Jerome, somewhat defensively. “I grew up in the circus, remember? Never really stayed in one place that long.”

“So then you must’ve been homeschooled.”

He shrugged. “Not really. I mean, I can read and everything.” He raised one eyebrow as if to disagree with himself. “Well, it’s not my strong suit. After a certain age I was too busy working.”

“Oh.” That was sad – Bruce couldn’t imagine how he’d be if he wasn’t encouraged to learn. Maybe that was why Jerome was “not a big book guy”.

“Yeah, some guy at Arkham said I probably had some kinda A-D-something-or-other, and dis – dis –”

“ADHD and dyslexia?”

“Yeah, those are the guys. No idea what they mean, and that guy got laid off right after talkin’ to me, so. Probably just more psycho stuff. Anyway, truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

Jerome made a face and thought about it for a long moment. “Man, I had a truth one picked out. Hm. Oh!” He smiled triumphantly. “I dare you to touch my face.”

“Your face?” That was… strange.

“Yeah, unless you’re chicken.”

“Why would I be afraid to touch your face, Jerome?”

“It creeps people out! Bet you won’t.” Oh. He actually didn’t think Bruce would follow through on the dare. Was that kind of insulting or kind of sad?

Bruce stood up from the chair and stepped toward Jerome. The redhead’s eyes followed his right hand as he moved it toward the scar tissue on the side of his face; he was clearly fighting the urge to tilt his head away. Interesting – what was the reason behind that?

He touched the tips of his fingers to Jerome’s scars gingerly, not sure what they’d feel like or if they hurt to touch. They were slightly raised, hard and smooth. It was a strange contrast to the mottled roughness of his skin, the sharp bone just underneath.

Jerome’s breath hitched at the contact; his eyelashes fluttered, like he was startled. It must have been a sensitive area, and it seemed he really hadn’t expected it. He was looking down at his hands, which were fidgeting idly. Bruce ran the pad of his thumb lightly over the curved scar running around Jerome’s left eye. The older boy’s skin was warm under the palm of his hand. He looked very small, and very soft.

Bruce withdrew his hand.

“Freaky, huh?” Jerome asked, cracking his neck loudly and obviously trying to act casual.

“Not really. Do they hurt?”

The redhead didn’t answer, just tilting his head quizzically at him. “My turn!”

“Truth or dare?”

“Hm. Truth again.”

Something occurred to Bruce. “When I asked you who’s the last person you’d kill, you said Detective Gordon or somebody else.”

Jerome’s eyes fell into shadow as he predicted the question. “Pass.”

“You can’t just pass,” Bruce said. “Who is it?”

“Someone who has it coming.” He crossed his arms over his chest and turned away from Bruce. “Pass.”

The dark-haired boy frowned. “Jerome –”

“I said pass, Bruce.”

And that was it.


	7. Chapter 7

Jerome had been talking about “getting out of here” quite often. He probably could escape, if he tried, since his recovery was going well – but he hadn’t yet, for some reason. Bruce hypothesised to himself that the criminal didn’t want to be seen in anything but peak condition. By the beginning of his third week in Wayne Manor, he was out of the wheelchair most of the time, enough that he could travel between floors, which meant that his constant noise had a greater area of exposure. Selina had still not shown up. Perhaps she was pissed off at him about something, or perhaps she was simply being mysterious. It wasn’t unusual.

A faint thumping and clanking caught Bruce’s attention, getting closer. That would be Jerome, no doubt, on his way down the stairs with some new and exciting way to make a lot of noise. The approaching sound grew quieter as it entered the library, where Bruce was reading. He was sneaking up on him, then.

“Boo!” There he was, leaning abruptly over Bruce’s shoulder. The younger boy could hear a dramatic sigh, filtered through the metal of the helmet Jerome was wearing.

“Where did you even find that?”

“Upstairs. You’re no fun to scare, though, you know?” He made robotic movements with his arms.

“I heard you coming.” Bruce shrugged. “Have you eaten?”

“What’s it to you?” asked Jerome, suspicious. Somehow he still suspected almost everything to be some sort of attempt on his life.

“Jerome, if I was going to kill you it wouldn’t be a spontaneous midafternoon poisoning.”

“Well, I did, anyway. When’re you calling the cops on me, anyway?” He perched on the back of the couch.

Oh, right. He’d been planning on that, hadn’t he? “When you’re better, I suppose.”

Jerome gave him a funny look. “I wanna know so I can plan my grand escape accordingly. Also, question! This is not your shirt.”

It was not Bruce’s shirt. But they weren’t the same size, and Jerome had flat-out refused to allow him to buy him clothes that actually fit him. Direct quote: “Not like I’m sticking around, and anyway, I don’t want you knowing my sizes, billionaire boy!” Therefore, Bruce had simply guessed at the right sizes and ordered some clothes that he thought would be right. It was honestly somewhat surprising that this was the first time Jerome had realised: the shirt in question was light-coloured and covered in vintage-looking clown heads.

“No, it’s your shirt,” Bruce deadpanned, looking down at his book without really paying attention to it.

The redhead was silent for a moment, pulling the shirt out a bit in front to look down at it. “I’ve got excellent taste.”

He’d done this sort of thing a couple of times, and it seemed that it was his roundabout way of sort-of saying thank you. The fact that he would express anything close to gratitude, at all, was very interesting. It almost implied that he wasn’t as far gone as his asylum records would argue. Almost. Bruce had to keep his hero complex in mind.

The trouble was that he was beginning to like Jerome. It was impossible not to – he was magnetic, in a way, drawing people toward him with undeniable force. Even Alfred was on next-to-civil terms with the criminal. Bruce had caught the two of them in the kitchen a few days ago, the butler mixing cookie dough while Jerome measured (and stole) chocolate chips.

“Jerome,” Bruce said after a silent moment. “Why is it that you’re so anxious to leave?”

“Uh, cause I got plans other than being kidnapped?” He snorted.

“Like what?”

The older boy made a face. “You know, causing chaos, wreaking revenge on the city for screwing up my teenage life, finding – finding ways to, uh, cause chaos, blah blah.”

“You’re trying to find the person you want to kill, aren’t you?”

The minute stiffening of Jerome’s spine told Bruce everything he needed to know.

He looked up at the criminal, brow furrowed. “Who is it?”

His jaw clenched, and then he grinned. “Told you, he’s got it coming! Don’t matter beyond that.”

“Is he the person who stabbed you?”

“Might as well – eh, no.” Jerome laughed sharply.

“Do you remember what happened? You didn’t seem to. I forgot to ask.”

“Yeah, I mean, bits and pieces. Don’t remember getting here, that’s for sure.” He stood and began to pace around the room. “The thing that really, really pisses me off is – it wasn’t anyone. Just some guy in some alley. Didn’t even recognise me, can you imagine? Just tripping outta his mind and looking for a fight, and I was too busy icing my stupid face to get outta the way.”

So it had been right after the diner. The icepack he’d run off with hadn’t even melted.

“Dumbass passed out right after, too. Pathetic...”

So he’d been walking, bleeding, for longer than he should have been able to keep going.

“But you’ve got friends, right? Allies? Why wouldn’t you go to them?”

Another sharp, bitter laugh. “Sure, I got allies. A big old group of crazies who all hate each other just _slightly_ less than they’re all scared of me. I go back there half-dead? I’m not walking out.” He picked up a small glass paperweight from the desk and started turning it over and over in his hands as he walked. “I die, it’s gonna be on my own damn terms.”

What had he said when he’d shown up? _“I didn’t know where else –”_ To go, Bruce realised. He didn’t have anywhere to go. So, half-conscious, he’d walked out, past the city, in the dark and the rain, to the house of somebody he’d fought time and time again. He’d come to Bruce. _“Nobody ever helped me,”_ he’d said that night. Had Bruce’s intervention in the diner affected him that much?

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said, feeling as though it could never be nearly enough.

“Nothing to do with you, Hero.” That was a newer nickname. At least it wasn’t C-3P0, but it still wasn’t his actual name. Jerome was teasing him for not letting him die – and it was sad, wasn’t it? That to him, that was something to tease about?

“So, if not the man who stabbed you, who is this person?” He backtracked to the previous topic.

Jerome was facing the half-curtained window, silhouetted against the afternoon sunlight. “He’s… someone I thought was already dead.”

“You thought you’d killed him already?”

“ _Way_ before I started killing. Turns out he just ran away! Left me behind. Changed his name, got himself a nice little life, and never looked back.” He didn’t laugh, or even smile – Bruce could only hear anger in his voice.

“You knew him when you were a kid?”

“I _was_ him, sometimes. You know, the circus came back to Gotham every year, and I’d dig these holes around the site, every – damn – year, every night for as long as we were here. Gave myself blisters that would pop the next day while I was working and bleed. We looked so – well, Mom’s boyfriends liked to wake one of us up at night when they wanted a smaller-size punching bag, usually me, but…” He shrugged. The curtain blocked out the light enough that Bruce could see the bone-white of his knuckles as he clutched the paperweight. “Figured the guy’d taken it too far. Turns out I just got left behind.”

Oh. Bruce understood. “He was your brother, wasn’t he?”

Jerome drew in a breath, shaking slightly with rage and the remembrance that he wasn’t alone with his thoughts, and turned back toward him. He nodded. “We’re twins. Used to be identical,” he remarked, gesturing to his face.

The paperweight made a dull sound as he tossed it into the palm of his other hand, and he collapsed onto the couch opposite Bruce. There was a short coffee table between them.

“And he’s still in Gotham? Where?”

To be abandoned by his twin – that must hurt in a way that Bruce couldn’t quantify.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Jerome growled. “I wanna see the look on his face when he finds out I’m not as dumb as he thinks. I wanna hear what he has to say for himself.”

“Well –” Bruce hesitated. “You said he changed his name, do you know what to?”

“Xander Wilde.” The criminal spat the name like a curse. “Stupid.” He was obviously lost in thought, otherwise he wouldn’t be volunteering information.

“I could help you.”

“What?” Jerome looked sharply over at him, startled.

“I could help you find him.”

“I’m not joking for once, Brucie.”

“Neither am I,” Bruce assured him, more confident now that he’d said it. “I have connections, and nobody knows you’re here. If you promise you’ll just talk, I’ll promise to do everything I can to find him.”

“Just talk? I want him dead!”

“He hurt you. Everyone’s hurt you, Jerome.”

“Put away your tiny violin.”

“I’ll be there, Alfred will be there. He won’t hurt you again.”

Jerome scoffed. “Yeah, duh, I’m gonna hurt him.”

“Talk to him first. I’ll convince him to come here, you can pretend to crash the meeting and put on a show. Just, talk to him. Please.”

“Why do you care?”

Bruce paused. He wasn’t really sure of the answer himself. So he told the truth: “I don’t know.”

Neither of them spoke for a long time. There was a palpable tension in the air between them, tracing the line between their eyes; Bruce’s were open wide, while Jerome’s were dark. Finally, the older boy stood up again.

“Fine.”

With that, he stalked out of the library. Bruce returned to his book at some length, equal parts happy and terrified. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was feeling either.


	8. Chapter 8

It only made sense that something would go wrong with the plan.

Bruce had, with some effort, managed to get into contact with Xander Wilde; it turned out that the man had actually been responsible for designing Wayne Plaza. This had given him all the excuse he needed to ask Wilde to come to the manor. Of course, he was interested in his architectural and engineering designs, but a meeting between him and Jerome had to be first priority. Bruce felt responsible for Jerome. If he could somehow help reconcile the relationship between him and Wilde, it might really positively affect his sanity. Maybe. Hopefully.

So he’d asked Wilde to come over to talk. It was partially a genuine meeting – Bruce wanted to see what kinds of new innovations they might collaborate on. He had to consider the possibility, though, that Wilde wouldn’t want to talk to him at all after finding out that Jerome was involved.

What had gone wrong? The last thing he’d expected. Jerome was sick. It was just some kind of cold-type bug, but regardless, because it was Jerome, it had become a big, dramatic affair. Honestly, aside from the melodrama, the criminal was surprisingly easy to deal with. He was currently (half a week after the plan had been made) engaged in tossing a balled-up piece of paper up in the air and catching it, while also chatting loudly about nothing in particular. Every so often, he’d sniffle. The two of them were in the library, Bruce sitting reading on one couch and Jerome splayed out on the other.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce had asked the same question of Jerome many times, and it seemed as though he was asking it with increased regularity over the past few days. On the plus side, his side was almost healed enough to restore him to normal mobility.

 _“Fine.”_ He drew out the word like he was irritated with the question. “I told you, I don’t get sick. Never have, never will! I’m practically invincible, you know?” He sniffled again.

“There’s no shame in catching a cold, Jerome.”

“Sure, sure, I’ll bear that in mind when I actually have one. When’s he coming again?”

“In two days – are you sure you don’t want to postpone the meeting?”

“Brucie! I’m not sick,” he insisted, coughing and wincing at the stress to his side. “I’m a dangerous serial killer!”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive. Besides, your immune system must be compromised from almost dying.”

“I’ll show you almost dying.” He tossed the ball of paper up higher than before and nearly missed catching it. Bruce wasn’t really intimidated by the threat: if Jerome had been planning on killing him and escaping, he was certainly well enough to do so. He still mentioned leaving often, but either he didn’t feel as though he could hide his injury well enough yet, or he simply didn’t actually want to go. Bruce was avoiding thinking about whether or not he wanted the criminal gone. He was afraid of what the answer might be.

It was warm out, but Jerome was wearing a sweater and acting as if it was winter. Might he have a fever? Bruce stood, put his book down on the couch where he’d been sitting, and moved around the coffee table, approaching the older boy.

“What’re you doing?” Jerome asked, tilting his head away with a somewhat-disgruntled expression.

“I’d like to check your temperature.”

“No way!”

“I need to know if you’re feverish.”

“I told you, I don’t get sick!”

“Just hold still.” Bruce extended his hand toward Jerome’s forehead, and the older boy promptly slid off the couch as if he’d been liquefied suddenly.

He got up onto his feet and held in a sneeze. “Don’t think I won’t kick your ass, billionaire boy.”

“Jerome. Will you please just let me check your temperature?”

_“No!”_

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not sick. And anyway, you couldn’t catch me if you tried.”

That was another thing: a sick Jerome was also an equal-parts attention-seeking and defensive Jerome. These past few days had been full of him distracting Bruce from anything else he was doing, and him trying to prove that he wasn’t sick at all. Of course, the most convincing proof of his recovery would have been his disappearance, but he was still quite distinctly present.

There they were, again on either side of the coffee table: Bruce standing up straight with crossed arms and in one of his many identical black turtlenecks, and Jerome, somewhat slouched, playing the foil to his monochrome in a white sweater that read “I’m On My Worst Behaviour” in sloppy red letters.

“Jerome,” said Bruce, in a tired tone. “Your brother is coming the day after tomorrow. Do you really want to be bedridden when he arrives?”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No, of course not. Will you just let me feel your forehead? Please?”

The criminal stood glaring at him for a minute, and then blew out a loud breath. “Fine.” He sat back down on the couch with a thump. “Really weird way to phrase that, though, you know.”

Deflection. Bruce ignored the comment and sat next to Jerome, thinking that perhaps it might be best not to be standing over him, given his reluctance to allow any physical contact that wasn’t instigated by himself. He lifted his hand to the older boy’s forehead gently. At times, he reminded him of nothing so much as a nervous animal – a cat, maybe, or a fox – previously hurt and constantly on the defense.

His skin was, as suspected, uncommonly warm. Where might a thermometer be? Bruce wasn’t sure, but he’d ask Alfred in a while. He ran his thumb absentmindedly over the scarred line just below Jerome’s hairline, mentally approximating what he thought his temperature might be. He could feel the criminal’s red hair as it brushed over his fingertips. It was softer than it looked, jagged spikes formed more out of habit than by conscious effort.

After some consideration, he decided that 101 degrees Fahrenheit was probably a close-to-accurate temperature. It wasn’t really anything to be worried about. Mild-to-moderate.

He was about to pull his hand away when he noticed Jerome’s reaction to the contact. The older boy’s eyes were closed, or almost closed, his head tilted slightly downward. His breathing was raspy as always. A faint crease between his eyebrows was struggling to keep its place. And slowly, barely enough that Bruce could be sure he hadn’t imagined it, and certainly subconsciously or at least with considerable reluctance, Jerome’s head moved forward. He was – at least he seemed to be – leaning into the touch.

Bruce froze. How ought he to react? He should probably pull away, right? This was exactly the kind of thing that would get him attached, and that was therefore very unsafe. But if Jerome was allowing this, if this might mean that Jerome might trust him –

He didn’t pull away. Instead, with a slightly-shaky breath, he moved his thumb again, over that line of scar tissue. There, again: a slight increase in pressure toward the place he was touching. Why was Jerome reacting like this? He was always so prickly, so invulnerable, always closed off behind a wall of jokes and idle threats.

Bruce remembered the night of the stabbing. The distance between where he’d been in the city and Wayne Manor wasn’t small, especially for someone in that kind of condition and in the rain. So why would Jerome keep walking? Even if the rest of his group of criminals would only take him out, why not go somewhere else? What about his cult, or any of his supporters around the city, or even somebody he could just threaten to make them help? The vague shape of an idea started to pull itself together in his mind.

Meanwhile, his fingertips were brushing more against the criminal’s hair. Since the – _leaning_ – they were just barely above the point of actually touching Jerome, and he slowly let them fall toward the fevered warmth of his skin. They moved through his hair almost of their own accord.

Jerome flinched slightly (as if he was expecting a sharp pull to his hair instead of a gentle touch), but he was still leaning into the contact. Bruce took care not to move his palm. It was the only thing maintaining the fiction that he was only checking for a fever. He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing, honestly. But it felt like the right thing, and hadn’t he promised himself that that’s what he’d do? The right thing. Even if the right thing was touching (stroking) the head of a serial killer.

His fingers extended against Jerome’s scalp, running through his hair. They shook slightly as he brought them back to repeat the action. The small shake broke the spell. Jerome’s eyes fully opened, meeting Bruce’s with some unidentified mixture of emotions. Then he was gone, jerking away and up to his feet in a millisecond and leaving the library without saying anything.

Bruce’s hand felt cold in contrast to the frantic heat of Jerome’s skin.

He sat, motionless, where he was for a long while. The idea that had begun to take shape was whole now, or nearly whole – he turned it over and over, thoughtfully. Why had Jerome come here? That was the question. An important question, and Bruce had never been one to let important questions go unanswered. It had to do, he thought, with the answer to another question: why had Jerome leaned into his touch?

The reaction had seemed almost involuntary. That spoke to need, or a deep lack of something crucial. What was it that Jerome needed that he thought he could get from Bruce? Something that meant coming to him. Walking half-dead to the manor, moving his head toward Bruce’s hand. Some closeness, perhaps? There was his obsession with Wilde, too – with being left abandoned. With being alone.

Then it hit him.

Jerome was lonely.

Of course! “No one ever helped me,” he’d said in the diner. No one, ever, in all his life. But Bruce had tried, hadn’t he? And what would that mean to a boy so hurt and so alone? It would mean a tiny spark of hope. It made sense: that was why he was still here. That was why he hadn’t run away. And he’d let Bruce touch his scars, his head, despite the fact that he was clearly not used to or expecting gentleness. Jerome was trying to use Bruce to heal his loneliness. It was still an attempt at manipulating him, but what other way did he know to gain anything than distrust and violence? What was important was that he was _trying._

Bruce couldn’t let that go. Hero complex be damned – he had to help. If Jerome was trying, even through his own past and insanity, Bruce had to try too. It was the right thing. At least, he hoped it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that got kinda feelings-y. Thanks so much for reading, and let me know your thoughts in the comments!!


	9. Chapter 9

The night before Wilde was due to arrive, Bruce, Alfred, and Jerome ate all together in the kitchen. They were having macaroni and cheese, which was just about the closest thing to soup that Jerome would agree to eat – Alfred had tried in vain to convince him otherwise, considering his cold, but most of his usual bargaining power didn’t seem to apply to a serial killer. Besides, avoiding soup was probably for the best. The burns on his mouth were still just visible, under close scrutiny.

The kitchen was where Bruce preferred to eat. The table was a lot smaller than the one in the dining room, and he’d never seen much point in moving to a whole other room, especially when nothing particularly important was going on. Alfred and Jerome were at opposite ends of the table, as their relationship wasn’t quite comfortable, though, honestly, that was a generous term for how things stood between Jerome and Bruce. Perhaps neither of them were exactly trusting. He couldn’t help but want to forge a connection with the older boy; the idea that he might consider trusting Bruce made him think that he could be helped.

“And are you both quite prepared for your meeting with Mr. Wilde?” asked Alfred. He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the plan, but he also wasn’t actively trying to stop it.

Jerome snorted derisively at the false name. He hadn’t actually told Bruce what Wilde’s real name was – he hadn’t inquired, as he was fairly sure he’d find out tomorrow anyway.

“Yes, at least I am,” Bruce assured the butler. “I’m curious as to what he’s like, honestly.”

Voice carrying the undertone of anger that it always did when Wilde was brought up, Jerome made a face and spoke. “He’s a tool. Kinda like you, actually, being a weird little nerd and all – imagine you, but a manipulative bastard.”

Bruce thought for a second that that wasn’t necessarily a huge step away from simply a description of himself. “I think it might be best if I start as I’ve explained it to him, just talking about his designs, and then you pretend to crash the meeting, so that he doesn’t catch on right away.”

“Yeah, sure, long as I get to take over after that.” Jerome took another bite of pasta. They’d discovered that, aside from soup, the criminal would eat pretty much anything, though he seemed to show some preference for typically-childish foods like mac-and-cheese and popcorn.

“You’re not going to kill this man in the house, are you?” Alfred leveled a stern look across the table at Jerome.

“Nah, I said I’d hold off for tomorrow.” He rolled his eyes. “Might as well make a big show about it anyway.”

When it came down to it, Bruce wasn’t sure that Jerome really wanted his brother dead. He was angry, yes, but he was lonely more than anything. That was one reason why he’d arranged this meeting: if they could talk without resorting to violence, perhaps they might sort things out. Fingers crossed.

If things didn’t go well tomorrow, and Jerome did attack Wilde, everything would be over. Bruce would have to turn him in to the police, who would at best send him back to Arkham and at worst kill him, and after more time in the asylum, his already-tenuous grip on sanity might slip past the point of no return. It wasn’t a good place. Besides, Bruce was becoming accustomed to Jerome’s presence around the manor, what with all his clanking and rolling and loud speech. He felt responsible for him. Anything that happened to or because of Jerome in the future would be partly Bruce’s fault, since he’d kept him from dying. And, fine, maybe he was growing attached.

One thing that he and Alfred had both been caught somewhat off-guard by was Jerome’s frankly excellent manners. When he chose to, he could be polite and charming, though he also had a habit of sitting on things that were not chairs. He was, in some respects, easier to deal with than Selina. For instance, she would make anything finger food; he was very aware of germs, and preferred to use the right utensils for things. It wasn’t what Bruce would’ve expected, and he didn’t quite know what to make of it, but perhaps it was related in some way to the old-looking off-white gloves Jerome insisted on wearing.

“Wait,” Bruce said, something suddenly occurring to him. “How old is he, since he wasn’t dead when you were?”

“21-ish, I guess,” Jerome responded after a moment’s thought.

Alfred let out a small laugh. “Hard to call you twins, then, isn’t it?”

“Guess you’ll see when he gets here. We used to be identical! Not anymore, obviously, but I get to see what I would’ve looked like, you know, otherwise.”

A concise way of saying “If I hadn’t been killed and subsequently mutilated and resurrected”. That would be another interesting point of the meeting. Would Wilde look familiar?

For the time being, he’d just have to take this evening and hope that everything didn’t fall apart after tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and fluffy, and definitely not a precursor to increased angst to come.........


	10. Chapter 10

Xander Wilde pulled into Wayne Manor’s long driveway at 2:00 in the afternoon the next day, in a black car with tinted windows. Bruce was already in his father’s study, where he’d planned to hold the meeting, and he could see Wilde get out of the car. He was accompanied by a slight woman who’d clearly driven. The edge of the window concealed him as he approached the house; Alfred would bring him up to the study. This was it.

When footsteps came along the hall, Bruce was sitting at his father’s desk, not for any real reason but pretending like he was doing something with the assorted papers in front of him. Alfred entered first, and he announced Wilde’s arrival and then stepped aside. Bruce stood politely and finally got a real look at Jerome’s twin.

“Mr. Wilde, thank you for coming.”

He stepped forward to shake Wilde’s hand. As he’d expected, the man was taller than him, but he had far better posture than Jerome did. His hair was a darker red and styled neatly back. His eyes darted somewhat anxiously around the study from behind glasses. He wore a dark-purple suit and dark-green shirt, clearly tailored; Bruce noticed the difference in build between the brothers, as Wilde was somewhat muscular, though slim, while Jerome was skin and bones. Wilde was an attractive man, in a quiet way.

“Thank you for inviting me,” he responded, keeping eye contact to a minimum. The woman outside hadn’t accompanied him to the study. “You wanted to talk about engineering, I believe?” His voice was nothing like Jerome’s, which made sense, considering that only one of them had been stabbed in the throat and then revived by electrocution.

“Yes.” Bruce returned to stand beside the desk. “You worked with my father, didn’t you? Designing Wayne Plaza.”

“I did,” he confirmed.

“Your work is incredible. I wanted to connect, partially out of interest and partially because I’d like to hear any ideas you might have about future projects.” That was true, but it certainly wasn’t the whole truth.

“Oh – thank you, I – well, thank you.” Wilde seemed a little flustered at the compliment. “I do have some thoughts, actually. My designs are all at home…”

“That’s alright, we can just talk, if you’d like. Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee?”

“No, thank you.” Interesting.

“Alright. Shall we sit?” There were a couple of chairs over toward the corner. “What kinds of ideas do you have?” Bruce took the seat with his back to the door, conscious that Wilde seemed the type to be anxious about that sort of thing.

He paused to think. “Well, I’ve been working on some designs for a more efficient city hall design and sustainable housing.”

“Really?” That was actually really interesting. He smiled encouragingly. “Could you describe them for me?”

“Do you think I could borrow a pen and paper?”

“Of course!” Bruce got up and retrieved them from the desk. He passed them to Wilde, who immediately began to use them to draw a sketch using his leg to hold the paper.

“So, this is a rendering of the housing idea,” said Wilde, showing him the sketch. “The tapered, trapezoidal shape would build off of existing buildings – I know there are a lot of abandoned spaces around the city. Building up means that the existing layout can stay as it is, and it would be easy to incorporate green-roofing, or something similar, into the design.”

“That’s genius.” Bruce was being totally honest. “What about building materials?”

Wilde hummed thoughtfully, similarly to what Jerome did sometimes. “That, I’m not as sure about. Recycled materials might be interesting to look into –”

“Like steel and plastic? Those are commonly discarded.”

“Exactly.” Wilde’s lips pulled up slightly at one corner. “Even plant materials or concrete could potentially be reused, though, meaning that costs to build these units might be much lower than other building projects.”

“This – this could change the entire city, Mr. Wilde. If you’d like, I think Wayne Enterprises would love to partner with you. I know I would, anyway,” he ended, feeling as though he was perhaps coming off as more of a child than he’d like.

Wilde paused.

“You don’t have to answer now, of course.” Chances were, once Jerome entered the equation, the last thing Wilde wanted would be to work with Bruce. Speaking of which, he didn’t know what kind of timeline Jerome was operating on to “crash” the meeting. “I’ve always wondered what the process was behind Wayne Plaza – I don’t know much about architecture, but it’s an impressive building.” He hadn’t really always wondered, but it was impressive. “What about the city hall idea?”

Wilde returned to drawing, on the other side of the paper. He moved the pen gently, taking care to place his lines as he wanted them. Interesting, how different he and Jerome seemed to be. “I confess it looks somewhat similar to the housing project, but –”

The study door slammed open. Bruce whirled around, deciding to follow somebody else’s lead on whether or not they were acting like they weren’t expecting the intrusion.

“Hello, brother.” Jerome’s voice was low. He was wearing a grey plaid suit vest and matching pants over a yellow button-up shirt. No weapons were visible on his person, but his threatening aura was enough.

Wilde gave a hoarse cry and stumbled back toward the wall of the study. “Jerome. What – what’s going on –”

“Nice to see you too.” The criminal advanced with a sharp grin. “Quite a little game of hide-and-seek you’ve been playing, _Xander Wilde_.” He spat the words like they tasted awful. “What’s it been? Right. Fifteen years.”

That, Bruce hadn’t known. Fifteen years? It didn’t really change much in his regard of the situation, but it was a long time.

“How did you find me?” Wilde suddenly noticed Bruce’s and Alfred’s lack of shock at Jerome’s intrusion. “No – Bruce – I don’t understand, why are you doing this?”

Strange that he was so afraid. Well, maybe not. “Mr. Wilde, please calm down. I promise you’re not in any danger.”

“Oh, sure he is,” argued Jerome. “I mean, I’m a dangerous lunatic, right, brother?”

Wilde’s back hit the wall. Bruce moved toward the twins, hoping to separate them long enough to facilitate a calmer conversation. “Mr. Wilde, I’m sorry we had to trick you but this was the only way he’d agree not to kill you.”

That didn’t help as much as he’d hoped; instead, Wilde drew in a shuddering, terrified breath.

“Please, will you sit down?” Bruce held out a hand with a pleading expression on his face. Wilde’s returning look was half fear, half anger. Still, he obliged and returned to the chair he’d been in previously.

Jerome, somewhat surprisingly, sat in the opposite seat. Bruce moved back to give them some space, while Alfred hovered close by his side.

“Look at you!” The criminal laughed. “You look great! To think I used to be the handsome one, huh? Guess girls always go for a guy that looks a little rough, though. Not this rough!” He was talking about his face.

“Jerome, please, don’t hurt me. Whatever I did, please –”

“Whatever you did?” Jerome snapped. “Like you don’t know? _Oh!_ ” He realised something. “You don’t think Brucie here knows what you did, do you? Think you’re gonna pin everything on me again? You left me!”

“I – I didn’t have any other choice!” Wilde was shaking.

“Of course you had a choice.”

The dark-suited man sputtered. “You’re insane!”

“Yeah.”

“And I tried to tell mom, but she didn’t want to listen to me. You blame me for everything that’s gone wrong in your life, Jerome, but the truth is… you were born bad.”

Jerome stiffened momentarily, then leaned slowly forward. He was deadly serious now. “Born bad, huh? So that’s why you made her think I tried to kill you.” His voice dropped down to a near-whisper. _“Right?”_

“We – we both –”

“What was it again? Huh? I… put a blade to your throat!” He was barely in the chair at all now, hovering closer and closer to Wilde. “No, no, no, I tried to light you on fire!”

“We both know you wanted to!” Wilde burst out.

Jerome stood with a feverishly quick motion. “Yeah, that was a funny story, wasn’t it?” His grin was wide and dangerous, and though the jerking movement forced a hand to his side, he didn’t slow down. His other white-gloved hand went up to his mouth, stifling a cough.

“Okay! So maybe it didn’t happen exactly like that, but I didn’t have any other options and I was _right_.”

“Hm?” Jerome’s coughing fit ended.

“You’re totally crazy!”

“Right,” he confirmed as he began to pace aimlessly across the carpet.

Wilde drew in a shuddering breath. “You killed our mother,” he whispered, teary-eyed. Jerome was behind him now, eyes stormy.

The now-younger twin put his hands on the back of Wilde’s chair and leaned in toward him. “She did deserve it, though.” He chuckled darkly. “After that whore hid you away, she gave up on me. Poisoned by your stories.” There was a beat, and his jaw clenched, containing his rage. “You turned everyone I ever loved against me, _my own flesh and blood!”_ A gloved fist pounded against the side of the chair, and Wilde, startled, cried out.

“Jerome, please –”

“Yeah, well.” Jerome had stalked forward, not facing Wilde; his entire body was trembling slightly with the force of keeping himself under control. “I guess it’s true what they say: we all could go insane with just one bad day.” He took a breath and returned, moving right in front of his brother’s face. “Do you know how many bad days it’s been, Jeremiah?”

Wilde flinched at the name. Was Jeremiah his real name? It must be.

Jerome’s voice was low. “It’s been fifteen years.”

“What are you going to do to me, Jerome?” Wilde – Jeremiah – sounded somehow defeated.

“I said I wouldn’t kill you,” Jerome said, straightening. “At least not today. So instead, I’m gonna _drive – you – mad_. See how _you_ like it.” He laughed manically.

“Jerome…” Bruce spoke up. The conversation seemed to be coming to a breaking point.

He turned toward Bruce, saying nothing. His hands were tightening into fists and then releasing, over and over. “Yeah, okay,” he muttered at last. “I told you I’d just talk, didn’t I?”

Bruce reached out a hand to him, but stopped, not sure that was the right thing to do. Jerome left the room, footsteps heavy in his white boots.

“Mr. Wilde – Jeremiah – are you all right?”

A tear spilled over from Jeremiah’s eye. “I – yes, I suppose I am.”

“I’m really sorry,” said Bruce, and he was.

“No, I’m alive at least, right?” He tried to smile, weakly. “I’ve always known he’d come after me someday. I just didn’t think I’d survive the encounter.” He was still clearly upset, though.

“Honestly, I suppose I thought I could help.” Bruce hung his head. “Perhaps I ought to have stayed out of it, and I don’t know how I could ever make this up to you.” Sure, Jerome hadn’t killed his brother today, but what about tomorrow? What had he meant about driving him mad?

“I think I should go,” Jeremiah said at last.

He stood, shakily, and left the room. Alfred accompanied him with a reassuring smile over his shoulder to Bruce, and then he was gone.

Bruce made his way to the desk and collapsed into the chair in front of it. Had he done the right thing? Or had he let his own feelings drive him to make a horrible mistake? He stood again, restless, and went to the window. Jeremiah had just exited the manor; he now stood beside the car he’d arrived in, talking to the woman who had driven him. She’d left the house with him – where she’d been, he didn’t know. The tall man’s glasses glinted as he looked up toward the window. The boy staring down fought the urge to duck behind the curtain. Instead, he just pulled it closed and returned to the desk.

It was his father’s desk, dented and pen-scratched by none other. What would Thomas Wayne have done if he were still alive? Bruce put his head down on the wooden surface and closed his eyes.

It was quite late in the evening when Bruce ventured outside of the study. Alfred had come in at some point to check on him, but he hadn’t been in the mood to do anything but chase his thoughts around in circles. Now, though, he’d better find Jerome. The redhead was probably at least as troubled as he was since what had happened.

The house was silent. None of Jerome’s usual noise could be heard anywhere. The quiet felt almost stifling, and Bruce’s brow was furrowed as he walked along the hallways searching. Where would he be?

The very last place he checked was Jerome’s room. Everywhere else was totally empty. He knocked quietly as he entered, and moved slowly, concerned about the mental state of the older boy. He didn’t see him, though, immediately, so he called in a soft tone: “Jerome?”

No answer.

“Are you in here?”

Silence. He wasn’t in the closet, wasn’t under the bed, wasn’t anywhere. But his wheelchair had been tipped over on its side, and the glass that had been on the nightstand was shattered on the floor. So he’d taken out his anger here, some time ago. But where –

Then Bruce noticed it. The window was unlocked. He looked outside; the roof was nearly flat there, and at about the same level as the inside floor. There were a few shingles out of place. From that roof, it would be easy to get away and into the forest at the back of the property, but why wouldn’t Jerome just use the door? Something wasn’t right.

On a closer look, he found a few long, blonde hairs around the room. Jeremiah’s assistant was blonde, wasn’t she? Maybe here’s where she’d been during the meeting, and Jerome had found out and blown up about it. That would make sense, he thought.

He opened the window, just to check. When his foot slipped on a loose shingle, he caught himself with one hand, and felt something wet on his fingertips. He looked at it curiously.

Blood.

There, leading across the roof. Maybe he’d just cut his hand on the smashed cup, Bruce reasoned. But if he had – why wasn’t the blood in drops? Why was it smeared across the shingles, as if something had been dragged through it?

No, something was definitely wrong. He climbed back inside and left the room, calling for Alfred. His feet broke into a run as he descended the hallway. Their quick tempo matched the beat of his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey....... how y'all doing..............  
> let me know what you think in the comments, i live to read them!!!


	11. Chapter 11

Jerome

His head was pounding. Why – oh. Right. He opened his eyes, one hand reaching up to touch the swollen place on the back of his head as his brain scrambled to connect the dots of the past… the past however long it’d been.

He’d been with Bruce, right? No, no, he was in his room at Bruce’s fancy-ass house. Oh, that blonde chick was there! A lot stronger than she looked, that one. So she’d taken him someplace, had she? Ten-to-one Jeremiah had something to do with it. Although he did have a lot of enemies, he supposed.

Standing up, Jerome cast his eyes around his surroundings. A totally empty, square concrete room with no obvious way to get in or out. Definitely Jeremiah, then – he never could make anything simple, could he? Let’s see. There had to be a door someplace. “How interesting,” he muttered to himself, throat raspy.

His side had _not_ benefited from whatever had gone down getting him here. Not that it was that fun to begin with, but his dull full-body ache wasn’t helping things. Luckily, his pain tolerance was pretty legendary. He laughed to himself under his breath.

One of the panels must be a secret door. That was so Jeremiah’s style, always had been – making things look like other things. Funny. He began to walk around the little room, pressing on the walls to check for movement.

“Oh!” He caught sight of something he hadn’t noticed before – a black camera mounted on the wall. “Oh,” he growled, grinning at the camera. “You are incorrigible.” It whirred, something adjusting inside it as he walked slowly toward it. Jeremiah was on the other side. No doubt about it. “Then again, you always were…” He laughed. “Oh, wait – or was that me? Sometimes I get so confused, I… I can’t remember.”

He could remember fine. Jeremiah would know what he was talking about: no matter who’d screwed up (and, okay, usually it was Jerome), the little nerd never got blamed. Nope, nobody ever bothered to tell the difference between them, and even if they did, everyone knew there was something off about Jerome anyway. Which, by the way, was _mostly_ a rumour started by Jeremiah.

He laughed like he’d totally lost it. Well, maybe he had, he’d spent enough time in Arkham to make a case for it.

“So,” he said conversationally. “What’s it like being all grown up, huh? 21, 22, what are you? Legal drinking age. You don’t drink, though, do you?” He reconsidered. “No, I bet you do, and you hate yourself just a little bit for it. Momma’s boy.” If that didn’t get under Jeremiah’s skin, not much would.

What were the others up to? Crane, Tetch, Penguin, blah blah, everyone. The Horribles, he’d called them a few times. If everything was going according to plan, they should’ve gotten to that St. Somebody school a while ago, to start getting their hands on Jeremiah’s current whereabouts. Not that it really mattered at this point, though an unexpected rescue party would come in handy. He moved away from the camera, not wanting to use up all his good on-air taunts.

Damn, his body hurt. That blonde really did a number on him, didn’t she? He sneezed. So maybe Bruce had been a little bit right about him being sick. What was Bruce up to, he wondered? Probably thanking his lucky stars he didn’t have to deal with Jerome anymore. Congrats, Brucie! He chuckled. It had been kind of nice hanging around with the little guy, he had to admit. Lots of fun stuff to be loud with. That was a weird thing, though – he never actually got yelled at or anything for making noise. Very sketchy, in his opinion. Nobody got Jerome Valeska’s guard down, not even some kid who was being suspiciously nice. Well, whatever Bruce’s plan was, Jeremiah had just thrown a big-ass wrench into it.

He stretched and waved at the camera. No point in getting nervous, he told himself – he was a lot tougher than anybody gave him credit for, and if Jeremiah thought he could beat him, he had another think coming.

Bruce

It had been a day exactly since Jeremiah Valeska had arrived, and there was still no sign of Jerome. Even Alfred was uneasy: it was visible in the slight tension in his shoulders, the way he kept on looking up at every small noise like it was heralding Jerome’s invariably-loud return. The door to his room was open. They hadn’t moved anything. It was as if it was a crime scene and one of these times, one of them would look in and suddenly make sense of the toppled chair and shattered glass.

The top of the desk in the study was beginning to look like one of Bruce’s taped-together evidence boards. There was Jeremiah’s paper, with his designs; there was the security camera still of Jeremiah and his companion in the driveway, a string connecting it to an index card reading, “Blonde hair hers?” None of it added up, though.

Maybe he was blowing things out of proportion. Jerome had healed enough to function, and now that he’d found Jeremiah, perhaps he’d simply left. There wasn’t any real reason for him to stay. Why would he, since he’d gotten what he wanted? Bruce had gotten attached, and his own feelings didn’t make a strong argument for any reciprocation on Jerome’s part. He’d known it was dangerous to try and make friends with a serial killer, and here he was. At least, as Jeremiah had said yesterday, he hadn’t been killed for his troubles.

None of that changed the fact that, somehow, he missed Jerome. The manor felt empty. There was nobody conducting elaborate cookie-jar heists, nobody trying and failing to learn wheelchair tricks, nobody laughing at nothing loud enough to be heard all the way across the house. The air seemed somehow stagnant.

What was Jerome doing? Planning something terrible, probably. Laughing at Bruce’s naivety.

What if he really had been taken, though? Was it so far a reach to suggest that Jeremiah might take matters into his own hands, thinking he was protecting himself? He’d been terrified, but at the same time, he’d calmed down very quickly. There was something that didn’t ring entirely true about him. And the fact that his companion had likely been in Jerome’s room, and the smeared blood on the shingles outside…

Maybe he ought to look for Jerome. Or he could visit Jeremiah – there had been an address in one of his father’s notebooks. But there was a good chance that, depending on what had really happened, neither twin would want to see him at all. Selina would probably know more about the goings-on in the city than Bruce did, but she still hadn’t turned up in a while.

He had to look, he decided at last. Maybe he was being stupid, but he still felt responsible for Jerome. He cared about him, in a way. And if he’d been taken, Bruce couldn’t let him think he’d been abandoned. Especially if Jeremiah was involved.


	12. Chapter 12

Jerome

If he’d never been to Arkham, this would’ve been a lot harder. Luckily, Jerome had gotten pretty good at dealing with solitary – although maybe his mental state now would beg to differ. He couldn’t be sure how long it’d been. The lights were always on, which made it hard to try and get any sleep, not that he was used to much anyway. Well, actually he’d slept a lot when he was with Bruce. He’d been almost-dead, so it was okay, plus he was pretty sure nobody was going to do anything nasty to him in his sleep. He didn’t have time to think about Bruce now, though: not like he cared whether Jerome lived or died. Screw Bruce.

Yesterday (or what he though must’ve been yesterday) he’d figured out where the camera’s blind spot was. Actually, he’d kind of created his own blind spot. Hey, improv had always been one of his strengths! He’d basically just pushed up on the bottom of the camera until it was mostly-useless – it wasn’t like Jeremiah was going to come in and fix it himself. He was probably scared he’d get his stupid glasses broken. Dumbass.

Anyway, the blind spot meant that Jeremiah couldn’t see him in most of the little concrete room, which meant that Jerome could get back to looking for the door. He’d been working at it for a while now, pushing on the walls. He was also talking to Jeremiah. If the camera could hear him (which it probably could), it was better to act like he was just up to his usual clownery.

“What do you wear those glasses for, anyway?”

So the corner panel just to the left of his jacket was definitely not the door. He’d marked each corner of the room with a different piece of clothing: boots, jacket, tie, button-up. That left him in his grey plaid pants, his white gloves (as always), and the t-shirt he’d had on under the button-up. It was _not_ warm in the little room, and his side was not happy with him for all the moving around and not-resting he was doing. All the more reason to get out fast.

“Never had ‘em when we were kids.” He laughed and, in his head, checked off the next concrete panel as _not the door_. “Do you just wear ‘em to look smart? That’s just like you. Remember those glasses you made outta twigs that one time? Jeez, those looked stupid.” The next laugh was really something, long enough for him to have checked off two more panels by the time it was over.

He was close – he could feel it. “You sure do look old, though, brother! Well, more than I would’ve thought. Guess I look older than I am cause of my face, but what’s your excuse?

“You must’ve gotten eye problems from our dear old dad.” Not the door, not the door. “Oh! That’s right, you don’t know about him, do you? You remember that whole Sven Carlsen story? Guy never existed! You’re never gonna guess who actually knocked up mom.” He was silent for a minute for dramatic effect. “It’s Mr. Cicero! You know, that old blind psychic guy from the circus? Yeah, he’s our actual dad.”

There! The panel second-closest to his boots shifted slightly when he pushed really hard on it. “D’you think we’re gonna look that crusty when we’re old? Well, I guess I don’t got much to lose in that respect.”

So, how to open the door? There had to be some kind of button. It took him a few minutes, but finally, Jerome found a slightly-darker square at the very bottom of the panel. Beautiful. Push that, and he’d be out. He put his boots on and took a deep breath: his throat wouldn’t thank him, but this laugh had to cover up the sound of the door opening.

Finally, he was free. He tried to keep quiet as he stepped through the doorway, finding himself in a long, bland hallway. It was made of the same grey concrete as his cell. He decided to go left.

It didn’t take him long to figure out that he was in a maze. So Jeremiah wasn’t out of his maze phase, huh? Figured. Jerome thought back to all those drawings the dweeb had done as a kid: it made sense that he’d grown up to be an engineer. Buildings were the only thing he ever wanted to draw, mostly mazes. Well, it was lucky that Jerome had paid attention to those drawings, wasn’t it? He turned a couple of corners and smirked to himself that he hadn’t run into any dead ends yet.

Knowing how Jeremiah designed his mazes, he wouldn’t have put Jerome’s cell in the very center. No, that’s where he’d be hiding. The cell was probably pretty close to the outside, and knowing Jeremiah, the path out would be mostly right turns. But Jerome wasn’t in too much of a hurry to mess with his brother’s head a little before leaving, now that he knew how to come and go from the cell. This way would take him to Jeremiah’s hideout. His lair, to be dramatic. And the day Jerome wasn’t dramatic would be the day he was dead. Permanently, this time.

He slowed down and walked quietly (a skill of his, which had come in handy at Arkham) when he noticed a few doors appearing along the hallway. Here was the center. Perfect. He didn’t hear anything, which was kind of weird. Each of the doors had a boring, understated metal label on it. Jerome passed “Kitchen”, “Ecco”, “Jeremiah”, and “Storage” before coming to “Office”, which was locked with a keypad. “Ecco”, he thought, must be the blonde who’d knocked him out. Now, what was the password to get in here?

The little screen wanted four digits. “1234” was too easy. Hm. He leaned down to see if any of the little buttons were extra worn down, but no such luck. That was exactly the sort of thing Jeremiah would’ve made sure of. If he had to turn around and leave this alone, he was going to die of the missed opportunity to cause problems. Oh! Jeremiah used to have a favourite number, didn’t he? Yeah, 8-something. He said it was hard to guess. That’d be the code, all right.

He put in an 8, then made a face, trying to remember. “C’mon, brain,” he muttered. “8… oh, 0…” 6,8! That was it! He punched the numbers in and waited.

Nothing happened. Jerome frowned and squinted down at the keypad.

There was an “Enter” button he hadn’t noticed. He pressed it and the door to the office slid open. Ha! He was in.

Luckily, the office was empty. Jerome closed the door behind him and grinned. So, this was where Jeremiah lived. It was dark, and one wall was totally covered in monitors, displaying security camera footage. There were papers and blueprints scattered over the multiple desks (who needed that many desks? Just put your stuff away!). He’d been right about the drinking, he noticed smugly: there was a glass bottle of some kind of fancy alcohol sitting on a small desk that seemed to be specifically for it.

There was a picture of Jerome up on a bulletin board. It was a black-and-white newspaper photo, a pretty recent one – his scars were there, plus the little bit of the headline that he could see said “Arkham”. As he got closer to it, he realised that the whole board was covered in stuff about him. Mostly the same kind of thing. Hey, at least Jeremiah had been worried about him, right? There was even his mugshot from when he’d killed their mother. He looked at it for a little while. It wasn’t too flattering, but it was still kind of weird to see himself with his face on right.

Jerome wandered around the office for a little while, pushing things onto the floor and generally just making a mess. Then he noticed a flip phone lying on what seemed to be the most recently used desk. Perfect. He picked it up, fumbling slightly with opening it with his gloves on. Good thing he wasn’t totally useless at remembering things: he knew Tetch’s number, and Tetch was never too far from Crane. Plus, they were the least likely to take advantage of his injury and kill him, out of all the Horribles.

He dialed the number and waited impatiently for Tetch to pick up. When he did, he sounded like he was fumbling to pick his phone up in time. “Hello?”

Jerome let out a low laugh. It was distinctive, what could he say? “How’s it hanging, Hathead?”

“Jerome? Is that you?”

“Nah, it’s Santa Claus.” He wouldn’t put it past Tetch to believe that, though. “Yeah, it’s Jerome. Listen, d’you have Scarecrow there?”

“Yes, he’s nearby. You’ve been missing for nigh a month – what’s going on?”

“I know, I know, I got held up. Can you trace this call? I found that guy I was looking for.”

“I suppose I ought to be able to.” There were what felt like several minutes of muffled beeping noises from Tetch’s end, and finally he spoke again. “Yes, I’ve got your location. Are you in need of assistance?”

“I’m in want of a lift. Bring Baghead with you, yeah?” The two of them were significantly more effective when they were together.

“We shall arrive posthaste.”

“Great. Oh, it’s a maze, so just try and find the center – and make a lot of noise while you’re at it!” He hung up, not really wanting to answer any questions about what exactly was going on.

Jeremiah had acted all scared at Wayne Manor. Well, Jerome wasn’t even close to finished scaring him.

He caught the sound of quiet beeping coming from the door. Someone was coming. That wouldn’t be Tetch and Crane – not unless they were already in the maze when he’d called. He hurried to press himself against the wall next to Jeremiah’s fancy alcohol.

Speak of the devil! There he was, stupid glasses and all. Jeremiah stepped into the office and immediately narrowed his eyes. He was taking in the mess Jerome had made.

“Want a drink?” Jerome turned toward the alcohol and began pouring two glasses. Intimidating, yeah, but maybe he should’ve thought about this idea. He had no clue how much went in the glasses.

Jeremiah gasped and stepped back toward the door. “What’re you - how –”

“Oh, please, you’ve been drawing mazes forever,” said Jerome, holding a glass out. “Don’t bother running, you won’t make it out the door.”

The engineer cast his eyes around him, looking for something to use as a weapon, probably.

“I was right about the drinking!” He advanced toward him, still holding out the drink. Jeremiah took it, hand shaky, and stepped back, bumping into one of his desks. “Guess I’m not so stupid, huh? Hey, maybe I should’ve been a cop.” He made a face. Screw cops.

“What do you want?” Jeremiah was still trying to walk backwards. Jerome rolled his eyes and, taking his brother’s shoulders, deposited him with his back to a workbench. He leaned against the one across from it.

“What do I want? Kinda late for me wanting stuff, don’t you think? Well, except for you to get what’s coming to you.” He grinned. “Besides, you kidnapped me, what do _you_ want?”

“I – I wouldn’t say I kidnapped you –”

“You did, but go on.”

“You’re dangerous, Jerome. You have to be contained.”

“And you thought you were the one to do it?” He laughed.

“Arkham is clearly not enough.”

“Right, cause people are all worried about whether or not Arkham is effective when I get out, but they’re happy to let it be when they’re shoving people in it.”

“You got yourself put in Arkham. You’re insane.”

“Yeah, no shit. It’s more fun to talk to you without an audience, you know?” There was nobody for Jeremiah to look good in front of.

Jeremiah took a large sip of his drink. Jerome, holding his, decided not to be shown up by some nerd and chugged all of his in one go, which, it turned out, was a lot less pleasant than it looked. His throat was really going to hurt later. He coughed. “That’s _nasty_ –”

“Look, I know that you want me dead, but surely we can come to an agreement?”

“An agreement? What would be in that for me? I’m on borrowed time, y’know, brother.” He couldn’t honestly expect to live for long, not with the kind of reputation he had. And with his only option for life being Arkham, and with his face and everything? He didn’t really want to.

“Jerome, please. We were seven, I didn’t have a choice!”

“Is that what you told yourself to get rid of the guilt?” Jerome scoffed. “No, you never felt bad, did you? You were telling your stories way before you ever ran away.”

“I was right!”

“Oh, it’s too late for me now, but then? Face it, Jeremiah. You did this – you made me.”

Jeremiah opened his mouth to protest, but he was drowned out by a loud alarm; all the lights went red.

“Ah,” said Jerome, lightly. “That’ll be my ride. I’ll see you very soon, broski!” He laughed and ran out, knocking more things onto the ground, including his glass, which shattered loudly behind him. Ecco was coming out of the room with her name on it as he got out into the hallway; he laughed louder and ran in the opposite direction.

“Stop him!” That was Jeremiah, behind him. Ecco began sprinting after Jerome. She was fast.

He shouted as she plowed into him, knocking him off his balance. Before he could totally catch himself, she was on him again, and her knee hit him in the chest somehow – he was pushed directly into the wall. Holy shit, she was good. He swung a fist at her, but she dodged it. A punch of her own landed right on his jaw, then another to his throat. Jerome choked and coughed and didn’t even notice her booted foot flying toward his side, connecting with his stitched wounds.

It felt like he was being stabbed all over again. He heard himself cry out, distantly, blood rushing in his ears. Then he was buckling over, collapsing in on himself, chin hitting the concrete floor hard. Nothing existed except the pain blazing through his veins.

His vision started to fade, and he was vaguely aware of footsteps running and voices shouting before he passed out.


	13. Chapter 13

Bruce

It was the fourth day since Jerome went missing. Bruce had talked, briefly, to Selina – it was hard to explain just why he was interested in the whereabouts of a notorious criminal without also explaining the events of the past weeks. Either way, she didn’t know anything, and their conversation over the phone had been brief. She was busy, apparently.

He’d been keeping an eye on the news, but there was nothing of interest there. Calling Gordon didn’t seem like the right call, since harbouring Jerome was probably very illegal, and the last thing he needed was to be in trouble with the GCPD. Besides, what was he going to do, complain about the unexpected lull in violent criminal activities? He wanted to, though. It had been four days, and no word from or about Jerome Valeska?

Bruce may not really have known Jerome. He may have been naïve, and he may have been stupid to have gotten involved with the killer in the first place – but after almost a month of recovery, he should’ve been itching to cause chaos in Gotham. Almost a whole week without doing anything at all? That didn’t make any sense. It meant that Jerome was probably in trouble.

If it hadn’t been clear before that Jeremiah had taken him, it was now.

“Alfred?” He pulled a sweater over his head as he walked downstairs to find the butler.

“In the kitchen,” came the reply. Bruce followed Alfred’s voice; he was chopping vegetables on the counter, but he put down the knife and turned around to see what was going on.

“Alfred, I need go to the address in the notebook. I need to find Jeremiah.”

“What for? You’ve already found him, haven’t you?”

“I think he might have Jerome.”

Alfred looked at him with some concern. “Really, Master Bruce? Doesn’t that seem a little absurd?”

“I know it does, but I have to check.”

“Do you? I know you’ve got a soft spot for him – and I’ll admit he wasn’t entirely horrible – but he’s a lunatic, a killer. Maybe he’s just gone.”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s all too strange.”

“So is he.” Alfred’s exasperation could be read in the lines of his face.

Bruce set his jaw. “You don’t have to come with me.”

“Well, I’m not bloody about to let you run off after a possible kidnapper.” Alfred wiped his hands on a nearby dishtowel with a huff. “Not by yourself.”

They hardly spoke on the way to the address. It was on the other side of the city, a quiet road cutting through forest on either side. The slamming of the car doors sounded violently loud compared to the thick silence surrounding them, and the trees bent overhead as if to pass judgment on those who dared disturb them.

“It should be around here,” said Bruce, hoping he was right. His father’s untidy cursive had been smudged, so that all that was really visible was the road name – it wasn’t like a house number would be so easily found here either, though. He stepped over the ditch at the side of the road and entered the forest.

Their footsteps crunched over fallen leaves and debris. A snake rustled by, oddly unafraid of coming close to humans. The leaves on the tops of the trees were shaken by a slight breeze. It was significantly colder in the forest than outside of it.

Alfred walked slightly behind him. “I don’t see how you could possibly know that.” He paused. “Look, what’s that over there?”

There were tire tracks leading a different way back toward the road. They were sloppy; somebody, clearly, had taken off in a hurry. Fairly recently, too, by the looks of it. Bruce stepped over them, brow furrowed. This didn’t feel right. He caught sight of what looked like a large concrete block a small distance away. His path was marked by broken twigs and heavy footprints in the soft earth.

It looked as if two people had arrived and then left in a hurry. One of the sets of footprints was made by sneakers, while the other looked like loafers. The weight on the retreating prints was different. Even without the shifted positioning that came from running, it looked as if the two people had somehow become heavier, or were carrying something fairly heavy.

There were cameras on all sides of the tall structure, he saw as he approached it. It was about the size of an elevator, albeit one without any wires or anywhere to go, and there was a metal door on one wall, which hung ajar.

Bruce’s heart skipped a beat when he saw what lay on the ground just outside of the door.

It was a white glove. He kneeled down to pick it up; its underside, the palm of the glove, was slightly sticky, spotted with blood. Jerome had been here – recently – and the relative cleanliness of the glove’s knuckles told Bruce that whatever had happened to him, he’d come out on the bottom.

A tight feeling took hold of his chest. If Jerome was dead, it was at least partially because of Bruce. He’d waited to come here for four days. Four days! Just to wait around for Selina to answer her phone? To debate with himself on whether or not to contact Gordon?

“I’m going in,” he told Alfred. “Stay here and look out for trouble.” He didn’t wait to hear a response, entering the door with determination.

The small size of the block made sense, he realised, as it was just to house a set of steep, grey stairs leading down into some kind of underground bunker. Lights inside were flashing, bathing the bare concrete walls in red. Bruce turned down one hallway, then another, then found himself at a dead end. This whole place was a maze. He turned back again and tried another route. There wasn’t any time for this!

What did he know about mazes? Always turn one way? That didn’t seem right. He went right. The hallway ended almost as soon as it began. He doubled back and continued, heading left this time, and then right again.

Another dead end. It was all he could do to hold in the frustrated cry that threatened to escape him. The red light was giving him a headache. Its flashing seemed to quicken the feverish pace of his heart. He closed his eyes for a brief moment: focus, he reminded himself. He had to concentrate. Then he saw it: a dark spot on the floor. Blood.

He let out a soft, incredulous laugh. Of all the stupid things – he hadn’t noticed it. There they were, drops of blood, leading down the hallway. Leading toward the center of the maze. Bruce broke into a run, chasing the trail as it continued. It was Jerome’s blood, he knew it. This was bad.

There was somebody standing perfectly still, Bruce saw as he rounded a final corner. It was the blonde woman, the one who was now sure had been the one to actually take Jerome. He skidded to a stop. If she could beat Jerome, she could probably give him a lot of trouble, if not take him out altogether. She didn’t react, though, as he came closer. Her eyes stared straight forward, blankly.

A small pool of blood lay on the floor a little in front of the woman, to Bruce’s left. His teeth pressed tightly together. If they’d fought, and she’d hurt his side –

Well, it could be catastrophic.

He stepped cautiously around her and entered the open door behind her. It was an office or a laboratory, dim and cluttered. A figure was silhouetted against a wall of staticky monitor screens.

“Where is he?” Bruce panted.

Jeremiah was leaning against one of the many workspaces scattered about the room, nursing a glass of whiskey. He turned his head and his glasses reflected a greenish glare. They obscured his eyes, but not the sardonic expression on his face.

“Where is he, Jeremiah?”

“Hello, Bruce.” The engineer took another sip from the glass. There was a slight shake to his hand.

“Tell me where.”

“He’s gone.”

“What do you mean, he’s gone? Where is he?” Gone could mean dead. No, it didn’t. Jerome wasn’t dead – he couldn’t be.

Jeremiah smirked bitterly. “He escaped. It was just a half-hour ago, probably. He got out of his cell, through the maze, in here – I don’t know why I’m not dead.” He swallowed some more whiskey. “He used my cellphone to call Scarecrow and Jervis Tetch.” Those were the two sets of footprints, then.

“I’m too late.” Jerome had gotten himself out. He’d gotten help from somebody else. Bruce hadn’t been there.

That made Jeremiah laugh – softly, with a sharp and dangerous edge. “Oh, Bruce. There’s no saving Jerome. You were always too late.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, but next time will have a lot going on!  
> Also: TW for suicidal thoughts!

Jerome

The big window across from the bed was letting in too much light, if you asked Jerome. He wasn’t in the mood for sunshine. He was in the mood for doing very bad things.

Unluckily, he couldn’t do much in the way of criminal activity. Ecco had ripped his stitches back open when she’d kicked him, and his wounds hurt. Plus, his head was killing him. Between all the medically-inclined members of the Horribles, they’d managed to patch him up pretty well once Tetch and Crane had brought him back to Penguin’s mansion. He still wasn’t in the best shape, though. All this drama was making him tired. He’d been passed out unconscious for a while after the fight with Ecco, sure, but that wasn’t really the same as actual sleep, was it?

At least he was back to planning his big showstopper. Freeze, Tetch, and Penguin were out at the moment, kidnapping a bunch of important hostages from some boring meeting. Later, Freeze and Crane would be heading over to Wayne Enterprises’ big chemical lab. That was exciting. The gas they were going to make would be sprayed all over the city, turning everyone into total nutcases. It worked, too: they’d had a few test subjects. Jerome tried on a grin and then scowled. Who was there to smile for, anyway? He was alone.

He’d go down and find the remaining Horribles sometime soon, of course. No point in being the fearless leader if all he did was hang around by himself. Anyway, he didn’t really expect he’d make it out of this last act of terror. That wasn’t a fear, just a fact. It was too big, and he hadn’t planned his survival into the schedule. That did make him smile. He was really going out with a bang.

Jeremiah’s present sat on the little desk in Jerome’s bedroom. He didn’t much like this room – it didn’t feel right, for some reason. It wasn’t like his room at Wayne Manor ( _not_ his room, he reminded himself). The gift was wrapped up nice in dark-purple wrapping paper and a fluffy white ribbon. Jeremiah would like the colour. He’d also probably like the tag attached to it: “Wayne Enterprises”. Nothing sketchy to it, right? Jerome had wrapped it himself. He’d always been good at that sort of thing. Inside, though, was a jack-in-the-box full of a special kind of the crazy gas. It was specially for Jeremiah, to drive him just as mad as he’d always denied being. He couldn’t help but be a little crazy. After all, the two of them were almost exactly the same. At least they’d started out that way.

The Gotham skyline was a lot closer here than from Wayne Manor. It made his whole body itch with the desire to breathe in the city smog, to spill blood and laugh. Maybe that was the feeling of his cells starting to die. At last, preparing to stop going on and just let go. That was the plan. Tomorrow was the last day of Jerome Valeska’s too-long life, and he couldn’t wait.

It was nice to have spent most of his last month where he had, though, if he was being honest. Not that his side was exactly fun to deal with. Just when he’d thought nothing could surprise him, something did: Bruce Wayne. Why the hell would he help Jerome like that? It didn’t make sense that after a whole life of hurting people and being hurt, Bruce of all people would just… decide not to follow the pattern.

Sewing up his side, letting him stay in a nice bed even if he got the sheets bloody, putting up with all of his stupid pranks without calling his butler to kick him out or shoot him or even hit him. That kind of thing, Bruce would probably brush off like it was just _human decency_ or whatever. But he’d also given Jerome pain meds and checked his bandages. He’d helped him move around – hell, he’d let Jerome lean on him without being scared he’d choke him to death. He’d made a point of avoiding soup just because he was worried it’d be a problem. What kind of logic did that follow, that the kid was more concerned about triggering a serial killer’s anxiety than about being his next victim? Even the butler was nice. He didn’t yell or threaten – he let Jerome hang around while he was making cookies without even complaining about how annoying he was.

Well, they’d almost definitely had a secret reason for acting like that. Whether or not they did, though, Jerome felt like he’d been the one to benefit most from the time. Besides, if they didn’t, they were straight-up insane. Crazier than him for sure. At least he knew not to trust people.

It didn’t matter now. Tomorrow he would die, and that would be the end of everything. He’d just let himself go, this time around; he’d fade into the endless darkness and drift away. But in order to do that, he had to let go of Bruce, as much as he didn’t want to admit that he was hanging on. Jerome’s grin didn’t reach his eyes. They were focused on tomorrow, on the bang he was going to go out with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! If you skipped because of the TW, here's the tl;dr version.
> 
> When they fought, Ecco opened up Jerome's stitches. He's okay, having been patched up by the medically-inclined members of the Horribles, and is now at Penguin's mansion. In regards to his big plan: the insanity gas is well under way, the hostages have been kidnapped, and he's wrapped a misleading present for Jeremiah. What the rest of the Horribles don't know, though, is that Jerome doesn't expect to survive the events of tomorrow.


	15. Chapter 15

Bruce

It had been a long night. When Bruce slept, which he mostly didn’t, he was plagued by nightmares. It was his birthday today – he didn’t feel very excited about it, but then he never really did. He was eighteen today. As old as Jerome. Finding him had to be the first priority.

“Are you going to tell me why we needed to come to the garage, Alfred?” It was mid-morning, and before anything else, Alfred had insisted they come out here.

“Happy birthday, Master Wayne.” The butler beamed at him.

Bruce stopped. “You remembered.” Between everything that had happened recently, and now the Jerome situation, he’d assumed his birthday would simply slip through the cracks.

“Of course I remembered. I bloody love your birthdays.” Alfred gave him a half-funny, half-fond look. “Your seventh was an absolute blinder. Yeah, I remember you had about 50 kids come up here, but you were off outside, on your own. You were obsessed by this one gift that your dad gave you – this bright red wagon.” Bruce remembered that birthday. He’d gotten terribly sunburnt, but it hadn’t mattered as long as he was working on his project. “You were in the garden all day, collecting all these rocks. When I asked you what you were gonna do with these rocks, you said, ‘I'm gonna build a home for my wagon. A secret place that only I know about.’”

Bruce paused, noticing the shadowed shape of a vehicle he didn’t recognise. “What’s this?”

“Well –” Alfred leaned forward slightly and crossed his hands in front of him. “It’s the reason why I brought you out to the garage, Master Bruce.”

The car started, lights turning on. It kicked up a small cloud of dust, just starting, and it made one of the most beautiful sounds Bruce had ever heard.

He felt his face splitting into a smile. “Alfred, I – I don’t know what to say.” What had he done to deserve such a car? There it sat, engine still purring as if it, too, was pleased.

“V-8, five liter, 460 horsepower engine. Painted matte black, anti-reflective: very difficult to see at night.” Alfred rattled off the details. “Oh, and, of course, this.”

Gunshots echoed off the walls of the garage. Bruce ducked, hands over his head. Then he realised that Alfred had been aiming at the car. Why would he – but then he noticed, it was unharmed. Not even a scratch. “100% bulletproof. Best be prepared, eh?”

It was perfect. It was better than perfect, it was – he didn’t even have the words. Bruce turned to Alfred and wrapped his arms tightly around him. The older man hugged him back after a moment of silent surprise. “Oh… oh, mate,” he murmured, and Bruce was glad that his wet eyes were out of Alfred’s line of sight.

By noon, Bruce hadn’t made any headway on locating Jerome. The news, when he’d checked it, had mentioned a group kidnapping that he was suspected of having a hand in. It was strange, and concerning, that Bruce’s first reaction to hearing that was relief. Jerome was alive, at least. Now, he was in the kitchen. Alfred had made him a cake and was currently carrying it slowly to the table while putting his own somewhat-vampy spin on “Happy Birthday”.

“I'll get some plates,” he said, finally placing the cake on the table and turning back to gather dishes. This was nice, Bruce thought. The house still felt oddly quiet, but a quiet celebration with Alfred was welcome.

“You know, for a billionaire?” He recognised that voice. “Your security system is _lame!_ ”

“Miss Kyle.” Alfred nodded politely at Selina, who had just entered the kitchen. It had been a month, now, since last he saw her, and he hadn’t really expected he would anytime soon.

“Thank you, Alfred,” he said as the butler set down two plates and left the kitchen. He could’ve stayed, but perhaps he figured Bruce and Selina would rather talk along.

“Enjoy,” he said on his way out the door.

Bruce turned to his friend. “Thank you.”

“For what?” she asked, nose wrinkled.

“Visiting me on my birthday.”

“Oh.” She took a bite of cake, not making eye contact. “I actually didn't know it was your birthday. I just happened to be strolling in the neighborhood.”

He smiled knowingly. “Mm-hmm. Either way... it's good to see you.”

“I knew it was an act.”

“What?” He looked at her, confused.

“The brat... and the drinking, the – the friends.” Right. He’d been awful, hadn’t he? To her, to everyone. Why hadn’t he apologised? She grinned. “It was an act!”

“I think you're more sure about that than me,” he said quietly.

“Master Bruce, we have visitors.” Alfred’s voice came from one of the next rooms.

(Jim and Lucius enter) Bruce turned to see who it was, not knowing who to expect. To his surprise, Jim Gordon entered, followed closely by Lucius Fox, who was carrying a silver metal briefcase. Alfred came in behind them.

Jim didn’t waste any time on greetings. “Bruce, we need your help.”

“What happened?” Bruce asked, concerned.

Jim walked around the table and turned on the little TV sitting on the counter. It was already tuned into the news, and Bruce recognised the voice speaking even before Jim had stepped back far enough that he could see the screen.

“Don't you know it's rude to keep a guy waiting?” It was Jerome, grinning coldly into the camera from a stage. He was carrying a remote-control of some kind, and wearing the same outfit as the last time Bruce had seen him, with the addition of a light-grey tailcoat. There was a tiny spot of blood on the collar of his yellow shirt. He must have replaced the outfit, or else not have been wearing it when he’d escaped Jeremiah’s maze. The amount of blood Bruce had seen would have ruined it. “Bring me my hostages, James. My trigger finger is getting itchy.”

Hostages? There was a line of people sitting behind him, with thick, mechanical-looking collars around their necks. Who was he missing? Bruce turned to Jim for an explanation.

“The hostages he wants are his brother... and you.”

“What, you having a laugh?” Alfred burst out. “No bloody way.”

“I don't like it any more than you do. But, Bruce, you have to trust me. Lucius and I have a plan.”

Jerome was still talking. “You know what? I don't think you're taking me seriously enough. Well...” He shrugged. “All right, let's see. Eeny meeny miny moe, one of these people have got to...” He held up the remote-control. “Go!” There was a beeping sound, and then Bruce held back a gasp as a shower of gore narrowly missed hitting the camera. The collars were bombs. “Oh, it's that guy. Oh, well.” Jerome shrugged again, and laughed.

“Did you see what just happened? That man's a raving bloody lunatic, he can’t be reasoned with!” Alfred was clearly upset. He didn’t really believe that Jerome was incapable of reason, though, did he? Perhaps he did. The question was, did Bruce?

“For once I agree with Alfred,” said Selina, perched on the table behind Bruce.

Jim frowned. “Bruce, listen to me. With your help, we can prevent more deaths.”

He had to do it, didn’t he? If anyone could reason with Jerome, he could. At least, he thought so. He took a deep breath. “What's the plan?”

Lucius set the metal briefcase down and opened it, taking out a rectangular device.

“Jerome is using a shortwave radio trigger with a dead man's switch,” Jim explained. “If we can cut the signal, he won't be able to activate the explosives.”

Lucius held the device out toward Bruce. “This emits a powerful signal that disables all radio waves close to it. Once within a few feet of Jerome's device, his trigger will be useless.”

“That will give us the time for the snipers to get a clean shot on Jerome, Firefly, and the others,” said Jim. A clean shot?

“So I wear this, and that gives you time to take them out?” This wasn’t about reasoning at all, was it? They were going to shoot Jerome. But there must be a way to just stop the whole thing. He’d figure it out, he had to.

“Correct.”

“Are you sure it's gonna work?” asked Alfred.

“I'm positive.” Lucius tilted his head, making a face. “99% positive.”

He had to do it. “What are we waiting for?” he asked, acting with confidence he didn’t really feel. “Those people need our help.”

“Good man.” Jim clapped Bruce’s shoulder. Was this the right decision? There were hostages, he reminded himself. Innocent people he could help save. But there was a small part of him that cried to let them die, if it meant that Jerome would be safe. He pushed it down and went about getting ready to leave.

Bruce’s foot itched to tap nervously on the floor of Jeremiah’s office. He’d cleaned it up since the last time he’d been here – had that only been yesterday?

“I watch the news,” said Jeremiah. “I know why you're here, Mr. Gordon. And you must be out of your mind if you think I'm gonna be led like a lamb to slaughter.” He adjusted his glasses somewhat peevishly.

Jim was clearly more than a little taken aback at the resemblance between Jeremiah and Jerome. “I understand your concern, but your brother doesn't bluff. If we ignore his demands, there's no telling what he might do.”

“We can block his remote's signal with this.” Lucius showed Jeremiah the little rectangular device. “If you and Bruce can get within a few feet of him, it will disable his remote...”

“He'll be a sitting duck,” finished Jim. “Our snipers can take it from there.”

Jeremiah’s eyes flicked over to Bruce behind his glasses, gauging his reaction, before he snapped at Jim. “For God's sake, Gordon, you have to know what he wants. To – to murder us both on live television.” He took a sip of his ever-present glass of whiskey.

“Mr. Valeska,” Bruce put in. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.” He’d have to explain their previous meetings to Jim at some point – not the truth, of course. Right now, making a friendly connection would help get Jeremiah to agree to the plan.

The engineer tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Likewise. I wish the circumstances were better.”

“May I ask what it is you've been working on?” The designs weren’t the same that he’d shown Bruce before.

“Um, yeah. It's a compact electrical engine. It generates power.”

“Fascinating.” It was. “How much power?”

“Just two could light up every building south of Westward Bridge.”

That was… incredible. “You have a brilliant mind,” Bruce said honestly. “And we all hope we can soon be rid of your brother, so that you can carry out your work free from fear. I understand if you choose not to help us today – but I trust that Captain Gordon and Mr. Fox will see that no harm comes to me. But, even if it does... maybe, by facing Jerome I can show the people of Gotham that standing up to terror is the only way to take its power away.”

Jeremiah chuckled. It would be difficult to say no to that kind of speech, Bruce knew. He’d feel worse about it, but the engineer would likely do the same if the tables were turned. He knew exactly what Bruce was doing. “Well said.” He nodded and took another sip of whiskey.

When they arrived at the place Jerome had set up his presentation, Bruce offered Jeremiah a small smile before they got out of the backseat of Jim’s car. It was a music festival, and a metal band was onstage. They were playing while Jerome growled random stream-of-consciousness faux-lyrics into the lead microphone. Something about “waiting, waiting, someone’s gonna die”.

The overdriven guitar came to a sudden stop as Jerome caught sight of Bruce and Jeremiah. “Well, look who decided to show up! We were starting to get nervous. Especially the mayor here,” he chuckled, pointing out one of the people in the bomb collars. So, the mayor was up there. This was bad. “My guests of honor, please, take your seats onstage!”

Bruce began to walk through the captive crowd; they stepped out of his way as he passed, as if the condition of being singled out by Jerome was somehow contagious. Jeremiah was somewhere in the mass of people, taking a different path up to the stage. Bruce couldn’t blame him if he didn’t want anything to do with him.

Meanwhile, Jerome was moving impatiently, drumming his gloved fingers on the microphone stand. He was still talking, trying to hurry the process along. “Come on. Don't be shy. It's all right. We don't have all day.” His eyes fell upon Jeremiah as he got closer, and he grinned dangerously. “Hi, brother,” he growled lowly.

Bruce had the signal-blocking device in his coat pocket. He should be in range now, he thought as he continued forward. There were snipers with their guns aimed at Jerome, somewhere up in the buildings around them. _The many outweigh the few_ , he reminded himself. It was Jerome or all of these people. He couldn’t choose to save Jerome, but there must be a way to keep everyone from dying – right?

Gunshots rang out. Bruce’s eyes fluttered half-shut as he flinched at the loud noise, but then he realised: nothing had happened. Jerome was still standing, just as he had been. He was clearly favouring his hurt side, but aside from that he was untouched.

Jerome laughed. “I had my guys take up the best vantage points last night. So they've been watching your little SWAT team all day.” So the snipers were dead. Wait – what did that mean? That was the end of Jim’s plan. Jerome’s remote-control was blocked, sure, but now they were still totally at his mercy. “Now, Bruce, brother dear. Get up onstage. It's time to get this party really started, huh?”

Jerome’s thugs grabbed Bruce roughly and began to wrestle him up the wooden stairs onto the stage. He fought them half-heartedly, stalling for time. They shoved him into one of the line of chairs and tied his wrists down to the rough wood. Blood and… other things… coated the stage, the remnants of the man whose collar had already been detonated. He could feel his heart rate speeding up.

Jeremiah was put in the chair next to Bruce. They made eye contact briefly; there was a note of accusation in the engineer’s eyes behind his obvious panic. He’d convinced Jeremiah to come along, and now it was likely that Jerome would kill them both. Bomb collars were strapped around both of their throats.

Jerome hadn’t faced either of them yet. He was still looking out over the crowd. “No parent will admit it, but everyone's got their favorites. Right, brother?” Finally, he turned to Jeremiah, smile cold and crooked. He seemed almost to be avoiding looking at Bruce. “The one who cleans their room, does their homework… doesn't try to kill everybody.”

He chuckled at his own joke and stepped back to stand behind Jeremiah, laying one gloved hand over the engineer’s neat hair and ruffling it. Jeremiah’s shoulders crept defensively toward his ears. “Little Mr. Perfect here? Yeah. He was that guy. He got adopted by rich folks, went to the top schools, then a top college. Meanwhile,” he continued conversationally. “ _I_ got dragged through the circus by my depressed alcoholic mother. Forced to clean up elephant dung every day.”

Somebody out in the crowd yelled, “Who cares?”

“Do you know how big those things are, folks?” He shrugged as if to say ‘tough crowd’ and turned his attention back to Jeremiah. “But I know something that Mommy and Daddy, they never knew.” The statement hung in the air as Jerome leaned in to whisper into both the microphone and Jeremiah’s ear. “You're as crazy as I am.”

There was a loud screeching noise as he dropped the microphone. The crowd, it seemed, had served its purpose for the time being. Now he was focused on his brother. Jerome’s face was less than a foot away from Jeremiah’s: Bruce couldn’t help noticing the mirror-image effect of seeing them that close together. In spite of their obvious differences, they were in some ways very much the same. Now, Jerome was untying the rope around Jeremiah’s wrists. “It's in your DNA. See, we got the same blood running through us – we are _practically identical_.”

Jerome pulled a switchblade out of his jacket and flicked it open. The blade flashed, clean, in the sunlight. When he spoke again, it was in a different tone – one that Bruce wasn’t familiar with. It was as if he was remembering something, preoccupied with another course of thought. “You are a killer. It's your nature, stop trying to fight it.” He held the knife out toward Jeremiah, handle first. The engineer’s eyes widened. “Take your best shot.”

Jeremiah hesitated. He looked down at the knife in his hand, then at Jerome. Bruce saw his face contorting with some mixture of fear and rage and pure adrenaline, but he didn’t move. The killer, standing over him, chuckled.

The low, knowing sound spurred Jeremiah into action. He let out a wild shout and darted forward at Jerome. Bruce’s breath caught in his throat.

Before the knife could make contact, Jeremiah’s momentum was thrown off. Jerome shoved him to the side with a high laugh; the engineer hit the ground with a thud and a cry. The wind had been knocked out of him. Jerome was still laughing as he kicked his brother, again and again, as he lay curled up on the ground. There was a manic light in his eyes. “That was so good,” he exclaimed. “I _love_ you!”

Finally, Bruce’s composure snapped. “Jerome!”

The killer paused and turned back to him. “Brucie, how’s it going?” he asked, picking the discarded switchblade up from the ground and playing with it.

“Why are you doing this?”

Jerome rolled his eyes and moved toward Bruce’s chair. “Oh, c’mon, little robot! Does there have to be a reason for everything?”

“I know you’re angry, and hurt, but –”

“You know?” Jerome’s voice was low as he left Bruce’s line of sight and stood behind him. “What do you know, huh?”

“Jeremiah abandoned you. You’ve been hurt, Jerome, but you don’t have to –”

The feeling of Jerome’s knife against his throat was familiar. Its sting brought back memories of other times they’d been just like this: Bruce, caught up in something out of his control, and Jerome, behind him with the promise of death if he moved even a little away.

“You know, we’ve had some good times together, Brucie. Course, you probably remember them as being more terrifying and traumatic, hey? Me with a knife to your throat?”

“Those aren’t the good times I remember. I remember your endless nicknames, the running commentary you’d make on the books we listened to, the drawings you wouldn’t let me see. I remember _you_ , Jerome – not the killer. The boy who’d been through a world of pain and come out laughing.”

“Right.” The knife pressed into Bruce’s neck a little harder. “Poor little Jerome, huh? You can’t even see past your own need to be the hero. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You get off on feeling like some kinda saviour?”

“I didn’t save you.” The knife threatened to cut deep with every word. “I didn’t come for you when Jeremiah took you. I’m sorry –”

Jerome’s breath hitched in Bruce’s ear. “Did it ever occur to you that I don’t need saving?”

“That’s not what I –”

“Don’t kid yourself, yes it is. You can’t help it, you live in a perfect little rose-coloured rich-boy world. You know what? When I was stuck in Jeremiah’s maze I was happy. Cause you – weren’t – there. You think we’re friends or something, huh?”

Bruce didn’t speak, afraid of the knife and of Jerome’s mounting rage.

“I don’t have connections. I don’t have weaknesses. You don’t mean anything to me, Brucie.” He let out a low, bitter laugh. “Nothing but a weak little volunteer, at a magic show where the magician ends up dead.”

The knife moved away, and Bruce took a deep breath, flooded with mixed emotions. He could still feel Jerome’s breath on the side of his neck.

The crowd started to move. Bruce caught sight of an arm pointing up to the sky above the stage, and he followed it with his eyes to see the cause of the disturbance. It was a huge blimp moving toward them, making a whirring noise.

Jerome straightened, walked toward the front of the stage, and spoke into a radio: “Keep coming!” So the blimp was his doing. That couldn’t be good. Bruce started pulling at the rope around his wrists, untying it.

A single shot rang out. He gasped, eyes closing reflexively – then he realised where the shot had landed. Jerome was on the ground, holding his left shoulder, which was bleeding. He was alive, though, and he flipped onto his back, pressing the buttons on his remote-control frantically before realising that it wouldn’t work. He scrambled to his feet and ran offstage.

Bruce kept working at the ropes tying him to the chair. Finally, he got one arm free, and the other was far quicker: he stood quickly and went to Jeremiah, who was still lying on the stage covering his head.

“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned. The engineer, seemingly in shock, flinched at Bruce’s hand on his shoulder. Then he looked up at him and nodded hesitantly. “Good,” Bruce said. “Hurry, get to safety.”

“I – okay,” Jeremiah responded shakily. “Okay. Where’s Jerome?”

“I don’t know. Not here, though – just get off the stage!” And with that, Bruce was gone, running in the direction he’d seen Jerome go.

It seemed as though he’d always be following a trail of blood when it came to Jerome. There were drops of it scattered along the pavement behind the stage. Why hadn’t he taken any vehicle to get away? Bruce followed the blood down an alley, then another. A red handprint lay against the metal of a door, and from there it was up a long staircase, around and around. This didn’t make sense. How could Jerome escape from up here? Didn’t he want to –

Wait. ‘ _A magic show where the magician ends up dead_ ,’ Jerome had said. He wasn’t just talking about the gala all those years ago, was he?

Bruce burst out onto the roof of the building. He could hear voices, and he followed them past lines of hanging laundry toward the edge. There was Jerome, balancing on the short partition wall, a cellphone in his hand. The blimp was nearly overhead. Somebody was standing in front of him with a gun. Bruce realised it was Jim just before he fired, shooting the phone out of Jerome’s grasp. What was he doing?

“Doesn’t matter,” Jerome said at last. He looked down at Jim as if he’d won. “Too late anyway. Bombs away!” he shouted at the phone, where it lay on the ground.

Another shot, and Jerome’s hands flew to cover the center of his abdomen, where blood was spreading across the fabric of his coat. He started to tip backward.

No, no, he couldn’t – this was his plan. He was going to jump.

Bruce ran out from behind the hanging cloth. “Jerome!” His voice broke.

Jerome stopped. His mouth twitched up slightly, smiling without the usual sharp edge, but his eyes were overflowing with pain. His breathing was loud and labored.

He raised one hand, just a little, as he began to lean back again. “Funny,” he muttered.

And then Jim was lunging forward, and Jerome was falling, and his bloodied body went limp just as Jim caught him around the middle. Bruce’s legs collapsed underneath him. All he really processed was the sound of handcuffs clicking into place around Jerome’s wrists, and that he was being carried away. He was alive. He was dying. Everything else was numb.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took a while, but here's an update!  
> My tumblr is @marsmorpheus, by the way.

Bruce

It was a little over two weeks before Bruce was allowed to go to Arkham. Jim had been very concerned about the fact that he’d followed them up to the roof, and that he’d seemed more afraid _for_ Jerome than _of_ him. There wasn’t any real reason for him to guess at the real relationship between the serial killer and the billionaire, though, and Bruce certainly wasn’t going to tell him, so he ended up dropping it.

Bruce couldn’t help wondering: would Jim have caught Jerome? If he’d been alone, free to deal with him unadulterated, would he have spared him or let him fall? Jim had been the detective in charge of Jerome’s mother’s murder. He’d been the one to send him to Arkham in the first place. The look in Jim’s eyes when he spoke of the killer told Bruce that it wouldn’t have been an easy decision, had it been just the two of them on the roof. He might very well have let Jerome tip of the edge and crash into the parked cars far below.

Now, finally, the doctors at Arkham Asylum were allowing Bruce to see Jerome. He’d been near death, they’d said over the phone. Of course he’d been shot thrice, not to mention his healing stab wounds, but the subpar medical treatment that Arkham had displayed in the past couldn’t be helping. Jerome’s facial scarring attested to that. Besides, he’d just tried and failed to kill his brother and gas the entire city – it wasn’t likely that anyone was particularly invested in keeping him alive, including himself.

It turned out that the blimp had, in fact, been part of Jerome’s plan. He and his allies had developed a gas, similar to Jonathan Crane’s fear toxin, that could drive anyone who inhaled it completely insane. Luckily, that part of the plan had also been derailed, and the gas had been dealt with.

Bruce drove to the asylum alone in his new car. The gates swung open with a low groan as he approached, and he sat behind the wheel for a few moments before getting out. It was a creepy, dismal place. The very air felt somehow sick. Nevertheless, he walked up to the visitors’ entrance with his shoulders back, resisting the urge to pull anxiously at the collar of his black turtleneck.

It was chilly inside the empty waiting room. “I’m Bruce Wayne,” he told the bored-looking receptionist sitting behind the battered sign-in desk. “I’m here to see Jerome Valeska.”

“Valeska? Really?” The receptionist raised his eyebrows as if in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“Huh. Well, you’re first on his visitor page. You’re probably gonna have to talk to his doctor before anything else.” He typed something into the computer in front of him. “Yeah, okay, she’s free now.” He stood up, cracking his knuckles lazily, and went to the door into the asylum.

Bruce didn’t bother making conversation. He was a little surprised to hear that he was Jerome’s first-ever visitor. What with how extroverted the redhead was, and how much time he’d spent here collectively, surely _somebody_ had come to see him?

Eventually, the receptionist knocked on a door with a panel reading “Dr. Macaulay”. The door was opened a few seconds later by a brown-haired woman in maybe her early thirties, and the receptionist walked away without saying anything.

“Oh – you’re Bruce Wayne,” the woman said, startled.

“Hi,” said Bruce, somewhat awkwardly. “I’m here to see Jerome Valeska and I was told I needed to speak with his doctor first?”

“That’s me.” She shook his hand and closed the door behind them. “I’m Dr. Elaine Macaulay, the doctor in charge of Mr. Valeska’s care. He’s never had a visitor before – may I ask what your relationship is with him?”

“We’re – friends,” he told her, unsure how exactly to phrase it without explaining the whole story.

“Oh, I see. I’m sorry, there’s really nowhere to sit. We don’t hold sessions in the offices, you see.”

Bruce nodded. He supposed that the actual therapy must take place somewhere more secure. “How is Jerome? Healing well?”

“Well, Mr. Wayne, he was shot three times, as well as showing signs of having been hurt in some way about a month and a half ago. He’s doing well considering, but we’ve had to keep him mostly to himself so as not to endanger him: his violent tendencies mean that he’s likely to hurt himself if he’s allowed around other patients.”

Violence, in Bruce’s experience, wasn’t the only way Jerome might end up hurting himself. “I understand. I can visit him, though, right?”

“Yes, absolutely.” Dr. Macaulay seemed hesitant, but she probably didn’t want to say no to Bruce Wayne. “You should know, though, that Mr. Valeska is in a very delicate condition.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

She paused, nodded, and moved toward the door. “I’ll take you to his cell.”

As they walked along more dingy hallways, Bruce kept talking. “I assume you have Jerome on medication. Can I ask what, exactly?”

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that to anyone but his emergency contact, and since he doesn’t have one…”

“Oh, I see. Is there anything else you _are_ allowed to tell me?”

“Just that he’s very disturbed, Mr. Wayne, and very dangerous. He’s really not safe to be around.” Her voice held a tight nervousness. A guard left his post to follow them at a gesture from the doctor, and the conversation died.

Well, Bruce knew it wasn’t exactly safe. He couldn’t just leave Jerome here – not hurt and alone. Besides, they had a connection, right?

Finally, Dr. Macaulay stopped in front of a metal door at the very end of a hallway. High security, clearly: there were multiple locks on the door, and a slot halfway up to pass things through. It didn’t seem to Bruce to be the right place for a mortally-injured eighteen-year-old, infamous as he might be.

“I’ll be returning to my office now,” said the doctor, seeming uneasy at her proximity to the cell door. Why on earth was _she_ Jerome’s therapist, of all people?

Bruce shook her hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.” She turned and walked hastily away.

The guard went about undoing the heavy-looking locks. He had a funny look on his face, like he was laughing internally at Bruce. “You sure you wanna go in there, kid? Not too late to back out.”

Bruce didn’t dignify this comment with a response.

“Alright, well, I’m out here if you need anything, so just knock on the door when you’re done.”

The door opened at last, and Bruce stepped in. It closed behind him with a low clank. He blinked in the low light, unable to see anything for a moment except for the dust suspended in the weak beams coming from the small, high window. Where was Jerome?

“What’re you doing here?” The voice, distinctive in its low rasping, came from somewhere to Bruce’s left; he squinted to make out the vague shape of a body in a bed.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he apologised. “They wouldn’t let me come until now.”

“No, what are you doing here?”

Bruce frowned. “Visiting you, Jerome. Are you all right, are they treating you well?”

“I don’t want you here.” He was uncharacteristically still in the small cot – Bruce’s eyes were adjusting to the light.

“What? I don’t understand –”

“Get out.” Jerome’s face was visible now. It was serious, strangely so. “I don’t wanna see you, billionaire brat. Leave me alone.”

Bruce tilted his head, concerned, and adjusted the collar of his turtleneck. “No.” He sat down in the chair next to the bed. “I came to see you.”

“Yeah? Now you’ve seen me, so there’s the door.” His speech was a little slurred.

“I’m not leaving, Jerome. I want to know if you’re all right.”

Jerome’s bandaged fist slammed against the metal bedframe, startling Bruce. His wrists and ankles were strapped down with leather cuffs, not allowing him much room to move at all. Dr. Macaulay had said that they were keeping him ‘mostly to himself’, not that they were keeping almost totally immobile. “What part of _go away_ don’t you get? I swear I’m gonna –” He cut himself off with a frustrated cry.

“How long have you been tied down like this?”

“Oh, you’re one to talk about _tied down_.”

“How long, Jerome?”

The redhead wouldn’t look him in the eye, scars twisted as he snarled. “What do you care? Get out!”

“Of course I –” Of course he cared. He took a breath. “Are they hurting you? What are they doing?”

“Like I’m gonna tell you,” Jerome scoffed. “Just get it over with and go.”

“Get – get what over with?”

He rolled his eyes. His arms moved as if to cross over his chest, but they were held in place by the cuffs. “Gloating. Poor Jerome, stuck in the asylum, can’t even kill his own brother, ha!”

Bruce looked down. “…You think that’s why I’m here?”

“Uh, duh. What, you’re _gen-u-ine-ly con-cerned_?” He put on a robotic voice, mocking Bruce.

“Yes.”

“Gimme a break,” he snapped.

How could he possibly help? “You must have felt abandoned. What with Jeremiah, and –”

“Have you seen him?” Jerome interrupted, turning his head away with an impatient huff.

“Jeremiah?”

“No, the president.” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, my bitch brother. Probably staged a whole traumatised meltdown, right?”

Actually, the older twin had been very stoic following the whole debacle. Bruce had talked to him over the phone about engineering and inventing – his renewable batteries were nothing short of revolutionary. Hopefully they’d be able to work together. Of course, there was the issue of his feeling as if he had to pick a side.

“He’s fine. Keeping to himself, mostly.”

Jerome laughed bitterly, head still facing the wall.

“They said I’m your first visitor,” said Bruce, trying to make conversation. His feet shifted awkwardly on the cement floor.

“So?”

“I suppose it surprised me.”

Another low chuckle. “Who’d you think was coming around for little old me, huh? You know, you can be pretty dumb sometimes for a smart kid.”

There was a sort of crushing pain in Bruce’s chest. He supposed it was true – Jerome didn’t have anybody at all. All his time here, and this was the sort of treatment he received? Was this normal? And there was nobody for him to tell, nothing to distract or comfort him. “Are you healing well, at least?”

“I’m a serial killer. I’m fine.”

“But –”

Jerome turned his head to look at him. “Look, Brucie, I don’t know what kinda complex you got going on, but I told you to get outta here, and I’m not that patient a guy.”

“Jerome –”

“What, you think we’re buddies or something, huh?” He laughed incredulously. “You think I was bullshitting you with that stuff I said last time we talked? I don’t give two shits about you.”

That wasn’t true. This wasn’t Jerome, not the one Bruce knew. Right? “That’s not – you don’t have to act like you’re so untouchable.” He faltered.

“I don’t have to do anything,” hissed Jerome. “Except lie here and wait until something interesting happens or I die. And I don’t wanna spend my time seeing you, so get out before I make you regret coming here in the first place.”

It was an empty threat and they both knew it. Jerome couldn’t move, much less attack Bruce. But why was he acting like this? Didn’t he want not to be alone? He was alive, at least. Why wasn’t he his usual, flippant, lively self? He turned back to the wall again.

Bruce’s hand reached toward him before he pulled it back. Why couldn’t this just be easy? He was afraid, though, that deep down he knew the answer. He took a deep, slightly shaky breath. “You didn’t want to survive, did y –”

“Get. Out. Bruce.” Jerome’s voice was low. There was a rough edge to it that made Bruce’s spine prickle; he stepped back almost reflexively toward the door. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Instead, he knocked on the cold metal of the cell door. He tried to focus on the creaking of the hinges as it opened, on the loud voice of the guard – he didn’t want to listen for what he might hear back inside. He was too afraid.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been longer than I'd wanted to post this, but here it is! Jerome being Emotionally Compromised and generally not really vibing. More fluff (and Jeremiah) to follow!

Jerome

It was hard to tell time in Arkham. If Jerome wasn’t tied down, he could probably see out the little window at the top of the wall, but here he was. The amount of light coming in didn’t really change. There must’ve been a lamp right outside or something. They probably had some stupid reason for not letting him know what time it was. Hell, he didn’t even know how long he’d been asleep this time. He’d been sleeping a lot. His wrists were a bit sore from waking up from nightmares.

Hold on – the feeling was different. Maybe he’d just been out for that long. He didn’t know what exactly they had him on, but there were a lot of different drugs, and he was pretty sure at least one of them was a sedative. (He almost didn’t have enough energy to hate them. They didn’t help any, just made him depressed.) He scratched his nose.

Oh, that _was_ different. The straps around his wrists were gone. Huh. Did they think he was better now, or something? Nah, they would’ve left them on anyway, knowing Arkham. This was something else.

He stifled a groan at the soreness in his body as he pushed himself up to sitting. That was harder than it ought to have been. His shoulder rested on the cold concrete wall next to him, holding him up. Okay, this was just ridiculous. A little muscle disuse wasn’t going to be the thing that took out Jerome Valeska. The restraints around his ankles had been removed too. With a little effort, he rotated so that he was sitting normally on the edge of the bed.

The familiar scrape of the opening cell door startled him a bit. He looked up, finding it somewhat harder than usual to straighten his shoulders, to see the guard who usually came around with the doctor.

“Get up, Valeska.” Polite as always. “You got therapy.”

Usually, since he was stuck in bed, the doctor – what was her name? Mac-something? – came to him. “What, no house call? Lemme guess, what’s-her-name doesn’t like me anymore.” He faked a frown. He wasn’t exactly in love with her, either. She was too skittish. He got his feet under him and stood up shakily.

Jerome absolutely didn’t know the guard’s name. He wasn’t any good with names. It didn’t matter, anyway: guards were always dying here, so there would probably be somebody new after a while. He referred to all the guards, in his head, as “Blue”, after their uniforms. This Blue clicked handcuffs around his wrists and steered him out of the cell by his shoulders.

“So, what led you to this career? Guarding Arkham Asylum? Not the kinda thing most kids dream about, at least I don’t think.”

“Keep quiet,” said Blue, brusquely.

“Aw,” Jerome had to reply. “You know I can’t do that! I just wouldn’t be me!” If he was being honest, it wasn’t easy to focus on both walking and talking – not with the amount of meds he was on, and the abnormal weakness in his whole body.

Blue jostled his shoulders, and he nearly tripped and fell.

Soon enough they were at the door Jerome recognised as where one-on-one therapy took place. There were a number of scratches and dents marking the outside, some of which he had put there himself. Blue opened the door and marched him inside.

“What’s up, doc?” Jerome grinned at the small, nervous woman, and then hissed as Blue attached his cuffs to the table roughly.

“Mr. Valeska. I trust you’re healing well?”

“I mean, same deal as last time you saw me. Less, uh – immobile, obviously.”

She smiled, more to be polite than anything else. He could hear Blue’s heavy breathing behind him. So much for patient confidentiality. Jerome squinted at her nametag; it took him a while to make all the letters fit into place. So it _was_ Mac-something. Macaulay. Well, he’d call her Mac.

“I had several conversations with a visitor,” she told him. He tilted his head, not sure where she was going with this. “About your care. He was… quite irate.”

What the hell did ‘irate’ mean? “Is this some kinda metaphor or something? Cause I don’t get _visitors_ talking ‘bout my _care_.” Well, there was Bruce. He’d told Bruce to leave him alone, though – and, he reminded himself, screw Bruce.

“It’s not a metaphor. You’ve got a new emergency contact.”

“A new one? I had an old one?” Minors couldn’t be emergency contacts, right?

“Your mother was your emergency contact, previously.” That was stupid, seeing as he’d killed her. “Mr. Wayne expressed to me that he was… rather displeased with Arkham’s methods.”

That little dumbass just couldn’t leave anything alone, could he? “Yeah, well, aren’t we all?”

“So,” Mac continued, not making eye contact. “You’re to be allowed free movement around your cell, and regular time in the common areas. Your medication will be under higher supervision –” Dammit. That meant he couldn’t cheat other inmates out of their antidepressants like he usually did. Usually, at least, when he wasn’t stuck in bed. “And Mr. Wayne will be visiting regularly.”

Great. More pity from the billionaire brat. “Where’s my stuff?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ll think about forgiving you,” he joked, showing his teeth. “You know, my stuff? My journal, et cetera?”

“Oh!” Mac nodded. Even the way she nodded looked nervous. What the hell was she doing working here? “Yes. I’ll have it sent to your cell later – it’s in with your files at the moment.” That was probably bullshit. The whole journal thing was just supposed to trick the inmates into thinking they had some privacy, anyway. Jerome was well aware that the doctors read everything he wrote.

“Funky. ‘S that it? I mean, if Brucie’s coming over I better make my room all nice, huh?” It was the funniest thing he could think of through the fog in his brain.

“Yes, that’s all. Officer?” She looked up at Blue, whose breathing had been supplying background noise the entire time. He detached Jerome’s handcuffs from the table and hauled him to his feet; he bit his lip, to keep from reacting noticeably to the rough movement.

Mac stayed in the therapy room as Blue manhandled Jerome back down the hallway. He didn’t bother talking – it was funny how tired things made him, what with the meds and the forced lying down. The real bright side was that he got to move around. He _hated_ being stuck in that bed. Not even able to move. He felt his jaw tensing just thinking about it.

And Bruce was going to be coming back? Regularly? Jerome didn’t know what to make of that. It gave him a funny feeling inside his chest, sort of close-to-but-not-quite the one he got when he was killing somebody who really had it coming. Was that good or bad? It must be bad, he thought, because he didn’t want Bruce around. That’s what he’d told him. Besides, he was sure the rich kid just pitied him, like he was some pet project or something.

It was weird, though – Jerome noticed the harshness of Blue’s hands gripping him a lot more, after the soft way Bruce had touched him. He had to stop thinking about this kind of thing, he told himself sternly. It didn’t do him any good to remember the cool skin on his forehead, sending tingles through his scars. It didn’t do him any good to think about Bruce’s thin fingers in his hair, the quiet hesitation before he’d touched him, like Jerome was a glass figurine he was scared of breaking. That didn’t do him any good.

Blue unlocked the handcuffs as they arrived at Jerome’s cell, and shoved him inside. He almost fell in time with the slamming of the door, catching himself with his hands on the far wall. What was this _stupid_ feeling? He couldn’t think straight.

He didn’t smile when he punched the cold, hard wall – he didn’t laugh at the ache in his knuckles – he couldn’t get rid of the tickling feeling in his chest, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t ignore the thoughts of Bruce (Bruce, still coming back, whatever the reason), no matter what he tried to replace them with.


	18. Chapter 18

Bruce

Bruce didn’t know how Jeremiah could spend all his time down in the maze. It was dark, not from any real lack of light but from the acutely-noticeable lack of access to the sky. What with the constant electric light, it would be easy to lose track of the time of day. It would be easy to lose track of your connection to the rest of the world.

Now, the two of them were in Jeremiah’s office, working. It was no small miracle that the engineer still wanted anything to do with Bruce at all, after the meeting-with-Jerome debacle. Bruce was grateful: the sustainable batteries they were constructing were nothing short of incredible. And besides, he liked Jeremiah.

That was another thing, though. Did he have to pick a side? The twins hated each other. Could he feasibly maintain relationships with both? Especially since he still didn’t know the whole truth about their relationship. Jerome claimed that Jeremiah had lied to their family about his nature – Jeremiah claimed to have been threatened, that anything he did was out of self-preservation. Bruce wasn’t planning on prying any further than he already had. Still… he felt somehow ill-at-ease with how things were. Jerome, of course, didn’t know Bruce was working with Jeremiah, and Jeremiah didn’t know Bruce was visiting Jerome. He felt as if he was playing on both sides of a very high-stakes game of chess, one that included explosions and dramatic costume changes.

He couldn’t help but compare the twins sometimes. Jerome was loud, hyperactive, and brash. He preferred to wear light colours, especially if they clashed with his bright, spiky hair, and he seemed to run cold – Bruce had rarely seen him in anything short-sleeved, regardless of the weather. Jeremiah was almost the opposite in terms of appearance: he didn’t wear short sleeves either, but the cold temperature at which he kept the labyrinth spoke to the fact that his full suits were more a matter of vanity than of practicality. He wore dark colours, a lot of greens and purples that brought out his eyes and complimented his neat hair. He was far quieter than his brother, and everything he said and did seemed carefully calculated, except for the frequent refills of his whiskey glass.

In some ways, though, they were very similar. Sometimes Bruce would catch a familiar gleam in Jeremiah’s eyes, something that reminded him of Jerome. When he was really excited about his work, the engineer would gesture wildly with his hands, and in the low light Bruce almost thought he saw Jerome’s scarred grin reflected on his face. Jerome would look at him, sometimes, with an intensity that he was used to seeing behind Jeremiah’s glasses. Both of them stopped breathing for a split second when Bruce touched them.

“Where do you think the diffuser ought to be?”

Bruce snapped out of his conflicted thoughts, moving around to the other side of the workspace to see the blueprint. He peered over Jeremiah’s shoulder, mindful of the slight smile on the engineer’s face. “Perhaps near the top? That way it could be accessed from the outside if need be.”

Jeremiah hummed his agreement; Bruce felt his body heat more than he normally might, due to the low temperature. “A safeguard, yes. That’s an excellent idea, Bruce.”

There was something about the way Jeremiah said his name – softly, as if it was precious – that made Bruce’s face flush a little. He noticed, however, that the diffuser plan had already been penciled in.

Back on his own side of the workspace, he returned to studying the map of Gotham. Once they’d finished the batteries, it wouldn’t take many of them to power the whole city, especially if they optimised their placement of the devices: that was what Bruce was working on now. He slid a ruler out from under some papers. Something caught his eye. Dislodged by the ruler’s movement, a small shred of what looked like wrapping paper lay on the desk’s surface. It was a shiny purple. He brushed it onto the floor, wondering briefly what it had come from.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Jeremiah, as always, looked up sharply at the foreign noise, and Bruce pulled it out to see what had caused it. It was a message from Alfred – or at least from Alfred’s number.

B – come back, I have to talk to you. – S

Selina. What did she need? Whatever it was, she wouldn’t go to the trouble of stealing Alfred’s phone if it wasn’t important. He’d better go.

“I’m sorry,” he told Jeremiah, really meaning it. “I’m afraid I have to get back home.”

The engineer nodded, but there was an anxious, almost sulky set to his jaw. “I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

“Of course.” He smiled at him and retrieved his overcoat from where it lay discarded on a bench. Then he was gone from the office and making his way along the identical hallways of the labyrinth. He knew how to get in and out by himself now – it felt like a real achievement that Jeremiah trusted him enough to allow this. Jeremiah’s friendship meant everything to Bruce. So, he had to add, did Jerome’s.

Bruce pulled into Wayne Manor’s driveway a little later. Selina’s message had been bothering him all the way back: he couldn’t help but worry about her, despite knowing that she was more than capable of taking care of herself. If she was in trouble…

She was in the library when he found her. He knew she could hear his footsteps, so he didn’t bother announcing himself; she stood silhouetted against the window, looking out. He noticed a tension in her shoulders.

“When were you gonna tell me?” she asked at last.

“Tell you what?”

She turned around to glare at him. “You know what. You had Jerome Valeska _here_ for a month? You didn’t turn him in to the cops? What are you on?”

Right. He should have guessed she’d be upset about that. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he said. “I felt that privacy was important.”

“Privacy with a _serial killer?_ ” she scoffed. “Who’s tried to kill you several times?”

“He was gravely injured. He needed help.”

Selina threw her hands up in the air. “Are you kidding me? He’s a total psycho!”

Why did that bother Bruce? It wasn’t exactly untrue.

“And now, what, you’re visiting him in Arkham?”

He hesitated. “Well – yes.”

“You’re gonna get yourself killed. Oh!” Her eyes lit up and she stepped toward him. “He’s blackmailing you, isn’t he? What’s he got on you? Trust me, it’s not hard to make that kinda thing go away if you know the right people.”

She really wanted to believe it wasn’t true. He should have told her. “He’s… he’s not blackmailing me, Selina.”

Her face fell. Then she launched back into her tirade. “Alfred said you’re hanging out with that Jeremiah guy, is that true?”

“Yes.” Bruce sat down on a couch.

“Are you trying to get adopted into the psycho-ginger family or something?”

“Jeremiah and I have been collaborating on a project,” he defended. “And he’s perfectly sane.”

“Bullshit he is. It’s not safe, Bruce, can’t you see that?”

“I’m aware of the risks. I can take care of myself.”

“Clearly you can’t!” She was pacing now; Bruce’s eyes followed her back and forth across the carpet.

“Selina,” he said, trying to get her attention. “You don’t need to protect me.”

That didn’t help. “Protect you? Somebody needs to – to manage you! A murderous psychopath points a gun at your head for helping him out –” She was referring to the night at the diner. “And you think it’s a good plan to bring him home and then start hanging around with his sketchy twin?”

Why couldn’t she understand? He knew she was trying to help, but he didn’t need her to shout at him over something he already knew didn’t make logical sense. “Jeremiah isn’t sketchy, he’s a genius. And I – I don’t think Jerome is irredeemable, either.”

Selina sputtered. “You’re insane! Come on, Bruce – Jerome Valeska is a total freakshow. He’s crazier than a bag of raccoons, and his brother’s probably the same. There’s no fixing that.”

His jaw tightened, and he stood up to face her. Those were his friends – and she was too, but she didn’t get to call them freaks. “I’ve got work to finish. Excuse me.”

She called his name as he left the library, but he didn’t look back. He didn’t do anything but walk until he was in his father’s study, doors closed behind him. Then, he laid his head down on the desk and tried – in vain – to make sense of the tangled web of his emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! I know sometimes Selina gets written off in fics focusing on Bruce and the Valeska twins - she's coming off bitchy right now, but she means well! She's still babey and I love her :)) <3


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lowkey highkey mushy, for them anyway

Bruce

Nobody bothered – or, more probably, dared – to search his messenger bag the next day, when he arrived to visit Arkham. The same bored receptionist as last time signed him in; Dr. Macaulay didn’t make an appearance. Bruce didn’t particularly want to talk to her anyway. After the last time they’d spoken, he was sure that their relationship wasn’t likely to become at all friendly. He could admit he’d lost his temper. He’d also made himself Jerome’s emergency contact, since he was just old enough to. It hadn’t been his most well-thought-out moment. Still, he didn’t regret it.

He stepped into Jerome’s cell with no small amount of trepidation. The older boy probably didn’t want him back, if what he’d said last time had been any indicator. Bruce held onto the strap of his bag like a lifeline, eyes adjusting gradually to the low light. “Jerome?”

His breath caught in his throat when a vague shape on the bed jerked suddenly upright like an old movie vampire in a coffin. Of course it was Jerome. He must have been asleep, or pretending to be. Either way, he was sitting up now, breathing heavily.

“Jerome,” Bruce repeated, softly. “It’s me. Bruce.”

Jerome’s eyes flicked toward him; he seemed disoriented. Perhaps he’d been dreaming. Then he seemed to recognise Bruce, and he blinked slowly and cracked his neck. “Looks that way, anyway.” He tilted his head. “What’s in the bag?”

Bruce swallowed a grin. Maybe it was just a post-sleep thing, but so far he hadn’t been told to get out. “I’m really not supposed to bring things here, but I think I scared your doctor last time.” He pulled the wooden chair, tucked under the small desk, next to the bed and sat, placing the bag on his lap and opening it. “Here – I couldn’t find more than a few coloured pencils, but I thought, well, you seemed to enjoy drawing.” He held the loose paper and pencils out toward Jerome.

The redhead took them slowly, giving Bruce a strange, almost suspicious look. “What for?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow in confusion. His mind was half-occupied with the odd way he’d phrased that last sentence.

“Y’know, what for? Why’d you bring these?”

“I thought you must be bored,” he explained. “It can’t be easy to be stuck in here all the time.”

“You do remember that I’m in here for trying to gas the whole city, right?”

“Well, yes.” In all honesty, that had seemed less important than his worry over Jerome’s injuries. “Still, the conditions here are far worse than I’d ever thought. And –” He took a breath. “And I suppose I just didn’t want you to be bored.”

Jerome, uncharacteristically, didn’t say anything for a few moments. “Huh,” he said at last. “You’re a weird kid, Brucie, you know that? Can’t remember if I told you. Pills,” he explained. “Not like the old memory bank is exactly locked up anyway.” He laughed.

“You did.” On multiple occasions.

“Oh, that’s good. Oh!” He snapped and pointed at Bruce with one hand, the one that wasn’t bandaged. “What’re they saying ‘bout me in the news? All bad things, I hope.”

He hadn’t been watching the news much, too busy working. “I think most stations prefer to avoid talking too much about you, because of your cult. There was a bit of an uproar surrounding the fact that you’ve got a twin.”

Jerome scowled. “That little attention whore. What’s he been up to, by the way? Eh, probably just hiding in his stupid maze, scheming.”

“He hasn’t been any more public than he was before,” Bruce told him, half-honestly. Jerome would see it as a betrayal if he found out about Bruce and Jeremiah’s friendship.

“Boring.”

“The last time I was here,” Bruce began, not quite sure how to broach the subject properly. “I… had a rather heated discussion with Dr. Macaulay regarding the way they’re treating you. And I, well – I ought to have consulted you first, but I am now your emergency contact.”

Jerome coughed, seemingly a little caught off guard. He cracked his neck and pulled his legs criss-crossed on the bed. “Yeah, uh, I kinda figured that was you.”

“Is that all right? If not I’m sure I can reverse it –”

“It’s fine.” There was a strange crease between Jerome’s eyebrows. “I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s not even a real thing, so, y’know, doesn’t matter. Besides,” he continued, grinning. “You’ll get tired of my bullshit pretty quick, Brucie.”

“I haven’t yet.” He should have, but he didn’t think, at this point, that it was possible. “Far from it.”

The redhead gave him a suspicious look and burst out laughing. “Nice delivery! I almost believed you for a second there.”

“I wasn’t joking.” Jerome’s eyes narrowed and Bruce explained further. “I – you’re important to me, Jerome. You’re my favourite ill-fated magician.”

Jerome let out a short, incredulous laugh. He leaned his head back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. Bruce denied the part of him that noticed the sharp, white scar on Jerome’s neck and thought exposing it like that might mean trust.

He remembered something, suddenly, and rifled through his messenger bag. Jerome’s head snapped down to watch – the crinkling noises had broken the moment. “You got a gun in there or something?”

It wasn’t a gun. It was a small plastic bag, which Bruce held out without saying anything. He felt as though he’d been talking a lot, and saying things that were likely to be held over his head later. Jerome took the bag and studied it, holding the clear plastic up toward the light let in by the window.

“What’s this?” he asked at last.

“Alfred sent those. They’re chocolate chips – he said something about you needing your fix, or something.”

“Huh. They’re not poisoned or anything?”

“Of course not.”

Alfred hadn’t made eye contact with Bruce as he explained the chocolate. The younger boy had an idea, though, that it had to do with the moments he’d seen the butler and the killer together in the kitchen, Jerome measuring chocolate chips and looking surprised when Alfred, catching him eating the candy, just winked and popped one in his own mouth.

Jerome opened the bag and ate one now. His scarred smile stretched outward and he hummed in pleasure. “Y’know, if you were a food you’d be dark chocolate.”

“How so?” Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“Same colour as your hair, and your eyes.” He shrugged. “Gloomy, kinda bitter, but still sweet. Fancy.”

Bruce was grateful for the fact that Jerome wasn’t looking at him, because he could feel his face heating up a bit. “You’d be licorice,” he said, taking a risk in replying. “Not everyone appreciates it, and it often comes hidden inside a colourful coating. It doesn’t taste like anything else.” He’d probably said far too much.

“Why are you doing this?” Jerome burst out after a pause.

“What?”

“You’re – I mean, why are you bothering with me? You keep coming back, and being all _nice_ and shit…”

Bruce caught his eyes. “I love licorice.”

There was another heavy pause, and then Jerome shook his head, as if to clear it, and took another chocolate chip. “Y’know, it was kinda fun hanging around while Jeeves was baking. First non-traumatic cookie-related memory, anyway. Woo-hoo.”

“He feels the same way, I think.” Except for the part about the trauma.

“Tell him, uh –” Jerome looked down at his bandaged hand. “Well, first off he’s an enabler. And – he’s not too bad for a stuffy old guy.”

“I will.” Bruce smiled.

There was a sharp knock on the cell door, the signal that the visit was over. Bruce stood up, ignoring the urge to brush Jerome’s hair out of his face, and moved toward the door. He was stopped as it opened by a last word from Jerome.

“And, Bruce, I’m… I like dark chocolate too.”


	20. Chapter 20

Bruce

The batteries were almost finished. This was the home stretch: they’d be able to start powering the city very soon. Bruce had been spending more and more time in the maze with Jeremiah over the past while, and last night he’d actually stayed overnight. Neither of them had slept much, as by the time they’d finished the night’s work it had been too late to drive back to Wayne Manor. That was what Jeremiah had insisted, anyway, and Bruce had been tired enough not to contradict him. There was a guest room, to his surprise; it looked newer than a lot of the other rooms in the labyrinth.

“Coffee?” They were back in the lab now; Jeremiah passed a hot mug to Bruce and brought his own over to spike it with his whiskey. He clearly wasn’t a morning person, or else his slightly-crooked glasses and rumpled shirt were misrepresenting him. His red hair was slightly messy at the back, and there was an almost-invisible smudge of something white on the edge of his jaw. What was that? Bruce couldn’t tell. He just sipped his coffee, the heat waking him up more immediately than the caffeine.

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Jeremiah sounded almost a little insecure. The question was certainly unexpected.

“Of course.” Otherwise Bruce wouldn’t be down here so much. “Why do you ask?”

Jeremiah smiled into the steam coming off of his coffee. “No reason really. I value your friendship very highly, Bruce.”

“And I yours. I’m glad that our initial conflict didn’t last.”

“Yes, that business with my brother –” He said the word with a curl to his upper lip. “Was unpleasant. I was honestly surprised he survived his most recent poorly-planned grab for attention.”

Bruce couldn’t help the crease between his eyebrows. Of course there was a history of violence, sabotage, and understandable mistrust between the twins, but he still felt almost a little defensive on Jerome’s behalf at the tone in Jeremiah’s voice. Especially knowing that Jerome had never meant to survive at all.

“You look concerned,” the engineer noted. “You’re worried, I assume, about the likelihood of Jerome’s escape and inevitable further attempts to kill us both?”

He hesitated. “I suppose so.”

“I’ll admit it’s a daunting prospect… as you know, he managed somehow to navigate this bunker. Besides, my brother’s insanity knows no restraint – he’ll be back sooner rather than later. I wonder if our next project might be a better security system for Arkham Asylum.”

There was a warmth inside Bruce’s chest, when he thought of a ‘next project’, that didn’t come from the coffee. “One that operates on the same principle as the batteries, perhaps? It might be harder to bypass or deactivate.”

Jeremiah hummed. “Microchipping could be interesting…”

“But inhumane.”

“I suppose so.” He tilted his head dismissively. “Yes, of course you’re right.” He sipped his coffee.

While Jeremiah seemed lost in thought, Bruce followed his own thoughts to something odd he’d noticed earlier on the engineer’s whiskey shelf. It was a small vial of contact solution. It had struck him as strange, since he wasn’t aware that Jeremiah wore contacts: his thick glasses seemed a permanent fixture. Of course, the clear liquid could have been eye drops for a seasonal allergy, or something like that. Jeremiah never really experienced seasons as such, though – and Bruce could’ve sworn he’d read the word ‘contacts’ on the vial. Well, perhaps he’d recently started switching up his routine.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” Jeremiah mused, snapping Bruce out of his mind. “Being so close to something with so much potential?”

Oh – the batteries. There had been a brief, hardly existent moment in which Bruce had almost thought Jeremiah’s eyes were piercing straight into _him_. “It really does. Your designs are unbelievable, Jeremiah.”

“It’s a feeling that seems far sweeter when shared with a true friend.” Jeremiah smiled, and Bruce smiled back.

“I hope we’ll share this experience many times in the future.” He really did. Hopefully, things would turn out so that he’d be able to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yes, Bruce *was* looking at Jeremiah's jawline fairly intently in order to notice that smudge. Wonder what it might be...


	21. Chapter 21

Jerome

Why did Bruce have to be coming today, of all days? He’d been warned by Mac that he’d be getting a visitor, and Jerome was not looking forward to it. Well, the thought of Bruce coming always gave him a funny tickly feeling in his chest (he couldn’t quite tell whether it was good or bad), but today especially he was pissed off. Bruce was just going to freak out if he saw him like this. He wasn’t even _that_ badly hurt, really – it had been some stupid fight, way easier than basically his whole childhood – but that didn’t mean Bruce would see it that way.

He should’ve expected something like this to happen, anyway. Long story short, a few guys had ganged up on him in the common room. They’d said a lot of stuff he hadn’t really been paying a lot of attention to, about him ‘going too far’ with the whole gas thing, and about how his ‘wackjob bodyguards’ weren’t around to protect him (he assumed they meant Hatter and Scarecrow), and that he ‘deserved a hell of a lot more’ than the beating they gave him. Sort of a free-sample situation, he’d thought about remarking before the first hits landed. A little taste now, and probably a gruesome death later.

So, yeah, he wasn’t exactly excited for the questions Bruce was going to ask.

In his last few minutes before the rich kid was supposed to get there, Jerome tried to work out a way to sit on the bed that would hide most of the damage. Luckily, the guys had focused mainly on the parts of his body that were underneath his uniform. That sucked for his assortment of mostly-healed knife wounds and half-healed bullet wounds, but it also meant that the only things Bruce might notice were the black eye and the developing bruises around his neck.

The door started to creak open at last, and he moved so that his left eye (the bruised one) was closest to the wall and hidden by the shadows. Pushing his hair back with his hand made his ribs and shoulders ache, but he didn’t flinch. Bruce entered the cell with a bit of a spring in his step. That wasn’t normal – normally he was the tetchy, morose one, and Jerome was the bouncy one.

“What’re you so happy for?” Jerome asked.

Bruce pulled up the desk chair to sit next to the bed. “I suppose I’m just in a good mood. How are you?”

“I’m in crazy-people jail, so, y’know, super-great.”

“I brought a deck of cards!” Bruce changed the subject, taking out the box of playing cards. Jerome didn’t quite know what expression would best communicate that he didn’t want to play any card games. He’d have to face Bruce head-on if he did, and then he’d see his black eye.

“I brought a blimp full of toxic gas to the middle of the city, but for some reason you still seem to think I’m a good guy.” He glared at the wall.

Bruce didn’t respond for a minute. Instead, he got up and brought over the desk, putting it in between the chair and the bed. He was strong for such a little guy. Of course, most people were stronger than Jerome at the moment.

“Would you like to build a castle?” offered the younger boy. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, was he?

“Whatever.” Jerome pushed his hair over his bruised eye and kept his head down as he shifted to face Bruce. He couldn’t help hissing a little when he accidentally hurt his torso. “I’m no good at card castles, though, so don’t get all pissed when I knock it down.”

“Something’s wrong.” Bruce frowned; Jerome avoided meeting his eyes, but it happened anyway. One skinny, sweater-clad arm reached forward and brushed Jerome’s hair out of his face. He flinched reflexively. “Jerome –” Bruce’s brow furrowed. “What happened?”

“Punched myself,” he lied, grinning. “Y’know, pain just makes me feel so alive – you get it. Reminds me of the good old days.” It did, but not in a good way.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “I’ve never seen you do that before. And there’s bruising around your neck.”

Screw his detective shtick. “Don’t sweat it, Brucie – I’m pretty tough, you know?”

“You didn’t do that to yourself.” It wasn’t a question.

He blew out a long breath. “No, I didn’t.” Why didn’t he want to lie to Bruce? He was admitting to being vulnerable, like an idiot. What kind of infamous criminal was he?

“Who did it?”

“Just some guys. Doesn’t matter.” He gave Bruce a look that made it clear that he didn’t want to talk about it.

Bruce’s jaw tensed, and then he took the cards out of their box to start building the castle. He placed two cards leaning against each other, then repeated the process a few times. His hands were steady – Jerome’s weren’t as reliable after his rebirth.

Jerome, meanwhile, shuffled through the deck looking for a Joker card. That had always been his favourite: he thought if he was a card (or if he had to pick some kind of stupid wrestling nickname) he’d be the Joker. Besides, he thought as he found the second Joker, there were always two in a deck. He’d have to explain that to Jeremiah next time they faced off.

Bruce kept building his castle, and Jerome placed the two Jokers side-by-side on the desk. He was the one on the left, the dancing one; Jeremiah could be the one who was just kind of standing there. He pulled out the King of Hearts to stand for Bruce, lining the card up next to the Jerome-Joker. It reminded him of his father’s card readings, back at the circus. That reminded him in turn of the last prediction _dear old dad_ had given him, right before Jerome had stuck a knife in his eye. _‘You will be a curse upon Gotham – children will wake from sleep screaming at the thought of you – your legacy will be death and madness.’_ And that was even before he had his face cut off.

“Go home, Bruce.” He almost didn’t realise he’d said it out loud for a moment.

Bruce looked up at him quizzically. “What?”

“Quit coming around here.”

“You keep telling me to leave you alone,” Bruce retorted. “And I keep telling you I’m not going to, so why not just stop asking?”

Jerome huffed. “We can’t be friends, or – whatever it is you want us to be. You’re Mr. Hero, and I’m literally a serial murderer.”

“You think I don’t know that? Jerome, the first time we met you gave me this.” He tilted his chin up and pointed to the thin, white scar on his throat from Jerome’s knife.

“Yeah, so get outta here. I’m no good for you, and you’re no good for me.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow at that. Maybe he had a point. He was _too_ good for Jerome, making him feel things, and think about other things than murder. He still didn’t know how to process that stupid tickle in his chest. It would’ve made sense to kill the little hero a million times before know, but somehow Jerome didn’t want to. He wanted to want to, but that was just the fact of it.

“I know you don’t trust me,” said Bruce, placing another card on his growing structure. “But I disagree. I enjoy spending time with you.”

That was the problem. Against everything he wanted, Jerome did trust Bruce. Somehow. In a sort of unconscious, accidental way. And he liked having somebody to trust, and to like spending time with – and he hated that he liked it.

“Just – stop! Just stop visiting, stop talking to me like I’m, I don’t know, some normal person –”

“ _You_ stop.” Bruce’s voice shook a little. “Stop assuming you’re so beyond anyone caring about you! Stop trying to push me away – stop acting like you’re invulnerable!”

“And do what, huh?” Jerome clenched his fists. “Wait to get outta here on good behaviour, then ‘rejoin society’ and have tea parties and shit?”

“You know that’s not what I’m saying! Just let me in, Jerome!”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t!” He yelled the words without really meaning to. “I can’t, okay?”

“Why not?” Bruce repeated, placing another card near the top of his castle. It was the King of Clubs, lying horizontally across two peaks.

“I –” He faltered. “I don’t like feeling like, like – the way you make me feel.” God, that sounded sappy. He tried again. “I mean, ever since you started being _nice_ to me I keep caring about shit, and feeling shit, and I don’t like it, so just leave me alone!”

Bruce looked at him, somewhat stunned. He looked hurt, almost. His eyes dropped and, with hands that shook very slightly, he placed the last two cards on top of the castle – the Jack of Diamonds and the Ace of Spades.

They fell. The rest of the castle fell with them.

Bruce got up and left without saying anything, and when he was gone, the tickly feeling inside Jerome’s chest turned nauseous. Later, when he tried to pick up and rebuild the cards, his body ached too much to gather them all, and his hands were too shaky to make them stand up anyway. He held the King of Hearts in the hand that wasn’t bandaged. It didn’t help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, there's a hell of a lot of card symbolism in here, and I'll admit to having spent way longer than I probably should've researching it. Also, Jerome does NOT know how to process his emotions. :)


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter, this time around, but it's building up to some stuff!! What do you think is going on with Miah?

Bruce

Jeremiah’s eyes were lit from within as he looked up at Bruce from where they were assembling the test model battery. It couldn’t be… Could he have finally completed it?

“I think I’ve got it,” the engineer breathed. “I think it’s finished.”

He scrambled to his feet and fiddled with some switches on the wall. The room’s lights turned off, leaving them in darkness. Bruce held his breath, unwilling to believe that it was true. It was too good to be true, wasn’t it? Clean energy?

The lights turned back on, powered by the battery.

Bruce let out a stunned laugh, half-disbelieving, and jumped up. “It works,” he exclaimed. “It really works! Jeremiah, I mean, it’s – you’re –”

“We’ve created something wonderful,” said Jeremiah, more calmly but still smiling. “You and I, Bruce.”

“You and I.”

Jeremiah poured himself a glass of whiskey. “Can I offer you a celebratory drink?”

“Yes, thanks.” Usually he didn’t indulge in Jeremiah’s alcohol, but today was different. Today was the start of everything being different, forever. He took the proffered glass and held it up as the redhead did the same, saluting.

“I’m glad,” said Jeremiah. “That it was you I did this with. I think we must have been destined to meet… you’re my _very_ best friend.”

Bruce smiled at him. He tilted his head quizzically when Jeremiah’s proud smile slipped, brow furrowing. “Is something wrong?”

He sighed. “No. I almost wish Jerome could see this.” He sipped his whiskey. “That he failed. That I’m nothing like him.”

“He will.” Why wouldn’t he? News would still reach him in Arkham. And really, they were more alike than either of them cared to acknowledge.

“I suppose it depends on what you believe about the afterlife, doesn’t it?” Jeremiah breathed a short laugh.

“…What do you mean?”

“You know, whether or not he’s looking down.” He shrugged. “Or, well, up, I suppose.”

“But… Jerome’s not dead.” Bruce narrowed his eyes. What was going on? Jeremiah didn’t really think Jerome was dead, did he? No – of course not. He couldn’t possibly.

“It does feel that way at times, doesn’t it? I’ve spent so long alone down here –” He passed a hand over his eyes, pushing up his glasses momentarily. “That it’s hard to believe there’s nothing to hide from anymore.”

This wasn’t some kind of joke. Something was wrong. “Jeremiah…?”

“Is it strange that I almost miss him?” His glasses glinted in the light. There was a slight shake to his hand as it held his glass.

“Jeremiah –” Bruce stepped forward.

Jeremiah seemed to be lost in thought. In mourning, maybe, or something like it. “He was my brother, horrible as he was. It’s – it hurts.” He looked up at Bruce with sad eyes and a hint of breaking in his voice. “The death of family hurts, doesn’t it?”

“…Yes.” Bruce reached a hand out, unsure what he meant to do. If Jeremiah had somehow convinced himself of Jerome’s death, he must think they had that in common. “It does.”

“Would you… come with me?” Jeremiah asked, sounding a little anxious. “To visit his grave?”

“I… I guess so.” Bruce nodded. That would convince Jeremiah that he was wrong. It had to. They’d get out of the labyrinth, and he’d see. “Okay.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if this makes sense At All, but I kept on getting writer's block in the middle of it so :/  
> Evil Bastard Baby Man!!

Bruce

The cemetery was far brighter than the inside of the labyrinth, despite the clouds covering the sky. Bruce hadn’t been back in a while; his parents were buried here, but he didn’t like to visit more than he had to. Reading their names on a piece of stone wasn’t the same as seeing them alive. Jeremiah, however, seemed surprisingly to know exactly where he was going. Bruce hadn’t expected that he had any real plan for ‘visiting Jerome’s grave’. It was certainly odd.

The engineer’s ankle twisted in one of the many dips in the ground, and he nearly fell. Bruce didn’t bring up the fact that sunken ground in a cemetery meant the edge of an old grave. He didn’t think it would help.

At last, they climbed a small hill and Jeremiah stopped in front of a headstone. It was made of grey stone, and it was rounded at the top and looked essentially the same as every other marker in the cemetery, except for a tarp covering the ground in front of it. Jerome, if he knew about this, would not approve. This was not his grave.

“His – _followers_ buried him.” Jeremiah’s hands were clasped in front of him, and there was a displeased tone to his voice. “I suppose they might as well. He’d be back out of sheer spite if I’d had anything to with it.”

But Jerome wasn’t dead. Why did Jeremiah insist on claiming he was? Bruce took a closer look at the headstone, reading the inscription. He frowned. _‘Here lies Jerome Valeska – second time is the charm!’_ There was no mistaking whose headstone this was, but Jerome was alive. He was in Arkham, getting into fights and… well, he was alive and that was the matter at hand.

“I don’t understand,” he said finally. “Jerome isn’t dead. He’s in Arkham.”

Jeremiah nodded. “I wondered about that myself, at first. I suppose the GCPD must not have wanted news of his death to get very far. Last time, it only expanded his influence.”

“But – I saw him. On the roof.” He didn’t want to mention his visits to the asylum unless he really had to. “Gordon pulled him up, he was alive.”

“If he wasn’t dead, he wouldn’t be buried. Look –” He pulled back the tarp covering the ground.

The grave was empty. Jeremiah sucked in a loud breath and stumbled back. Bruce’s eyes widened. It was empty, yes – but it wasn’t fresh. Dirt was piled loosely around the edges of the pit, dug out from the original hole. An empty coffin lay at the bottom. Its lid leaned against its side, showing clearly the lack of any body inside – and the bloodstains on the bottom.

“Oh my god.” Jeremiah’s voice broke. “No, no –”

“Jeremiah…” What could he say? What – what was going on? Jerome was alive, he knew it. But then why had there clearly been a body in what was obviously his grave? And where was the body? “There’s a logical explanation for this. There must be.”

“Oh, god, he’s still alive, Bruce. He’s back.”

“No, he’s not –” Not what? Not dead? Not back? One of them was wrong – was entirely deluded – and how could he be sure it wasn’t him? “No.” He was alive. He was fine. It was all going to be fine. “We should go.”

“He’s alive!” Jeremiah half-screamed the words and ran away from the grave. Bruce followed him; he was deceptively quick, and he couldn’t quite catch up. The cemetery’s uneven ground posed a threat.

“Jeremiah, wait!” There was no reply.

They were heading in the opposite direction from where the car was parked. The deeper they got into the cemetery, the older the gravestones grew, and Bruce kept nearly losing Jeremiah behind tall monuments. The body – he didn’t want to think about whose body it was – must have been unearthed recently. In all likelihood, it had been taken by Jerome’s cult. There was a good chance that they were still nearby.

If they found Jeremiah, they’d kill him. Bruce, too. They were the last two people Jerome had targeted before being sent to Arkham, or before… He blinked the thought away.

Finally, Jeremiah slowed. Bruce thanked his training for the extra burst of speed he was able to put on, and he threw himself at the taller man, cornering him against a tall pedestal. “Jeremiah! We have to get back to the car!” He was hardly aware of his hands clinging onto the engineer’s orange jacket.

“He’s alive,” Jeremiah muttered, eyes half-glazed. “Oh my god, he’s alive.”

“Calm down.” _Please_. “It’s his cult. We have to go.”

“He’s back.”

“No, he’s not dead!” His heart was beating faster and faster. “I don’t know whose blood that was, but Jerome is alive –”

“Exactly!”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You saw it, Bruce! Somehow he must’ve clawed his way out, or…” His breath came out as a sob. “He’s going to kill me. He’ll kill both of us, Bruce, oh god…”

“Jeremiah!” He had to understand. _Please understand_. “I saw him just the other day. He didn’t die. He’s in Arkham.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“He’s in Arkham. I’ve visited him! I promise you, that’s not his blood in that coffin.”

There was a look of betrayal seeping into the panic on Jeremiah’s face. “You visited him? How – why would you do that? He’s insane! He was insane, Bruce.”

“That’s not important right now. Please, we have to go.”

“Oh.” Jeremiah’s voice shook as he seemed to go somehow numb. “Oh, I understand.”

“Understand what?”

“It’s you. It was you all along, wasn’t it? Whose blood is in that coffin?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I suppose you’ve sewn this new face on, rather than stapling it. I didn’t notice at first…” With a sudden jerk, Jeremiah flipped their bodies so that he was the one pressing Bruce against the cold stone. “I see it all now, _brother_.”

“Jeremiah?” Bruce tried to push the taller man off of him.

“It was clever, I’ll grant you that, but it’s over now.”

“Jeremiah, what are you doing? It’s – it’s me, I don’t understand –”

“Stop pretending to be my friend!” There was a click, and a ring of icy-cold metal came into contact with Bruce’s cheek. A gun.

Bruce froze. Jeremiah wouldn’t really shoot him, would he? But if he really thought he was Jerome, he very well might. He felt as if his lungs were caught in a vacuum. All he could think of was the stone angel at the top of the gravestone behind Jeremiah. It stood between them and the sun, casting shadows on the engineer’s face, while light still caught on the shaken-loose strands of red hair and the hint of a tear beginning to form behind his glasses.

“Jeremiah. Please. Give me the gun,” Bruce pleaded, trying to keep his voice steady.

A loud bang assaulted his ears, and he flinched before realising Jeremiah had shot into the air. “You killed my friend Bruce.” He stepped back, keeping the gun trained on Bruce. “Start walking, Jerome.”

Bruce’s feet were frozen to the ground. He didn’t even know what to think. How could Jeremiah think that he was Jerome?

“Walk!” Jeremiah’s eyes were cold as he nodded in the direction they’d come from. Bruce stumbled forward. “You’ve cheated death enough, brother. Let’s see if I can’t make it stick this time.”

The walk back to Jerome’s grave was quiet. Bruce couldn’t think of anything compelling to say, and he couldn’t get the gun away from Jeremiah when it was pointed at his back. He was acutely aware of the alternating sun and shadows on his face as they passed by gravestones. They got closer to their destination, and Bruce’s brain went into overdrive trying to figure out an escape plan.

“Just a little bit further, brother. Then you’ll be back in your grave.”

“You have to know it’s not true, Jeremiah. It’s me – it’s Bruce,” he said quickly.

“I won’t let your lies fool me any more!”

They approached the grave. Jeremiah positioned Bruce at the foot of the deep pit; it lay behind him as he stared down the mouth of the gun. The engineer’s glasses glinted in the sunlight. He was facing into it. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Bruce lunged forward without thinking. He crashed into Jeremiah, sending them both to the ground. The gun fell out of reach.

Jeremiah was strong – not trained as Bruce had been, but he had a distinct size advantage. Besides, he was fighting to kill, where the shorter boy didn’t want to hurt him if he could help it. Finally, Bruce got behind Jeremiah and wrapped his arms around his neck. They struggled like that for what felt like at least an hour, until they were interrupted.

Hands pulled Bruce off Jeremiah. He struggled, startled at the unexpected interruption, and then saw who it was. Standing all around the grave, holding Bruce and Jeremiah back from each other, was a large group of Jerome’s cultists. This was bad. This was worse than bad. They’d kill them, all in service of Jerome, who Bruce was fairly sure didn’t actually want the two of them dead immediately. Unless it was Bruce who had the Jerome-dead-or-alive question all wrong. He didn’t want to be wrong.

The cultists were shouting, voices ringing in his ears. _“Long live Jerome!”_ Bruce fought against the relentless crush of the crowd around him in vain.

He caught sight of Jeremiah suddenly, and couldn’t quite make sense of what he saw. The redhead wasn’t struggling at all. A man with spiked, green-striped hair had a grip on one of his arms, but he was standing up straight, on his own. There was even a hint of a smile on his face.

The cultists’ shouts hadn’t stopped. _“Long live Jerome! Long live Jerome!”_

The green-haired man laughed wildly, throwing his head back. “Jerome is victorious at last!”

Bruce recognised the metallic click of a gun cocking, somehow, over the noise. Jeremiah raised his right arm. His fist tightened. There was a loud bang, and the green-haired man collapsed; blood and scattered pieces of his head flew through the air like shrapnel.

Jeremiah had just shot him. The crowd went silent.

There was a cool edge to Jeremiah’s voice as he tucked the gun away again. When had he even retrieved it? “Jerome victorious? Are you serious?” He removed his glasses and slid them into the breast pocket of his jacket; it exchanged places with a handkerchief, which he flicked out and wiped over the blood threatening to fall into his eye.

The blood wiped away. So did Jeremiah’s skin. Or at least, his skin colour – was Bruce seeing things? He didn’t understand.

“I am the one who’s victorious,” the redhead declared, and turned away. He seemed to be taking the handkerchief to his face again, from the way his arms moved. Bruce watched in silence while the cultists muttered amongst themselves. It wasn’t like Jeremiah to expose his back to anyone, literally or figuratively. But it wasn’t the first thing Bruce had been wrong about today. As he was doing whatever he was doing, Jeremiah continued to speak. “Jerome is as good as dead already – and he will be, for real, very soon. My brother will not be escaping Arkham this time.”

He turned back toward Bruce, finally.

The younger boy’s breath caught in his throat. “Jeremiah…?”

The man’s skin was bleach-white. His mouth was red, and without his glasses, his eyes stood out – not the soft hazel Bruce was used to, but an unnatural almost-neon green.

Jeremiah smirked. “You’re wondering about my appearance, I assume. You see, Jerome’s gas wasn’t all on that blimp. He had a special dose delivered to me.”

No.

That couldn’t be true. It wasn’t true. But he couldn’t help thinking back. The contact solution he’d seen in the washroom in the labyrinth, it had confused him, since neither Jeremiah nor Ecco wore contacts. But if he’d been hiding these eyes, then it made sense. The white smudge on his jaw that morning – it wasn’t something-on-skin. It was a missed spot in Jeremiah’s makeup. He should have seen it. He should have known.

“Look, Bruce,” Jeremiah drawled in response to Bruce’s frozen expression. “Like everything else Jerome’s ever set his mind to, his insanity gas failed. Other than some mild cosmetic effects, he might as well have sprayed me with water.” He looked around at the cultists. “You all need to see Jerome for the utter failure that he is. So, I donned a mask of madness to show you how feeble that really is compared to true greatness.” He smiled and held up a hand. “Behold, the face of true sanity. But –” He shrugged. “Looks aren't everything. Jerome wanted to turn Gotham into a madhouse. But to truly build something, you must first tear down what is already there.”

Bruce’s chest tightened. “Jeremiah – think about it, the gas worked! You want to turn Gotham mad – sanely?”

“Oh, Bruce,” the redhead crooned, moving toward him. “Gotham is already mad. That’s what I’ll remedy. No insane, thrill-seeking, half-baked notions: me, if I want to kill you?” His smile dropped; he pulled out his gun and leveled it with Bruce’s forehead. “I’ll just do it. I’ll shoot you in the head. _Simply_ and _sanely_.” The cultists sounded delighted.

“Jeremiah…” His voice shook.

“But I don’t want to kill you.” The gun disappeared. Bruce exhaled. The hands holding him were a large part of what was keeping him from falling, even as the crowd groaned, disappointed.

“Are you going to listen, or are you going to behave like children?” Jeremiah looked amused at Jerome’s – _his_ cult. Then his piercing gaze returned to Bruce. “See, I don't want to kill you, because I want to show you how much I've changed things. How much _we've_ changed things. Because I could not have done any of this without your help.”

“My help?” Their faces were very close now. Jeremiah’s eyes were almost hypnotic; it was impossible to look away from them.

“I feel very indebted to you, Bruce.” Those red lips curved upward. “I doubt Jerome would ever have managed to find me without your help. And, more immediately, those generators that we built with your money? They work even better as bombs.”

No. Please, no.

In the distance, there was an explosion. The cloud of smoke rising from behind the trees proved its realness. All this time, they’d been building bombs. Bruce had done this. Why hadn’t he realised?

“It begins.” Jeremiah stepped back. “Jim Gordon is dead.”

The cultists erupted into cheers.

“No!” Bruce shouted, trying in vain to rush forward. He’d killed Jim. Just like that. With a bomb that Bruce had helped build – had funded – had celebrated.

“Yes, Bruce,” Jeremiah snapped. “Sorry, but progress requires sacrifice. First, Jim Gordon. Next, my dear brother. You know, it’s really rather convenient that he’s locked up in one place. A stationary target assists one’s aim.”

There was a pit in Bruce’s stomach, and he felt tears stinging his eyes as he said, “I’m going to stop you.”

“I really hope you don’t try. I would hate to have to kill you. You know,” Jeremiah mused, “I wasn’t lying when I said that you’re my very best friend.” He put a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. Then his other hand flew up, and there was a moment of crushing pain in his face before everything went dark.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *shouting* BRUCE IS JEROME'S KING OF HEARTS!! and AFFECTION

Jerome

Bruce was late. They’d settled into a pattern, as far as Jerome could tell, of when he’d visit. Maybe his reckoning was off, but he could swear that this was late. Maybe Bruce wasn’t coming.

He’d taken to shuffling through the deck of cards a lot. The King of Hearts sat off to the side of his desk, where he was sitting for a change – it always made him feel kind of funny when it surprised him in the cards. Maybe Bruce had been listening when he’d told him to go away last time. Damn him.

The sound of footsteps along the hallway pricked up his ears. It was probably nothing. He shuffled the cards again. He tensed up when his door started to grind open, but didn’t move. His hands stopped moving the cards.

“Jerome?” The door closed. It was Bruce.

Jerome turned around in his chair. “What’s up, Prince Charming?” He tilted his head, taking in the expression on the smaller boy’s face. He looked upset, or maybe relieved. Could somebody be both?

Suddenly, he was wrapped up in a tight embrace. He wanted to shove it away – but then he told himself that it was Bruce, nobody else, and he just sat in his chair feeling conflicted and confused. “Uh…” He cleared his throat. Bruce’s arms were warm around his shoulders. His hair smelled nice. “I’ll say it again, what’s up?”

“Sorry.” He stepped back, letting go of Jerome. One hand rubbed at his eyes. “I just – I wasn’t sure – I shouldn’t have done that. I apologise.”

“You seem upset.” And he was acting weird.

“Yes, I suppose I must. How are you? You’re healing well?”

Jerome frowned and stood up (somewhat slowly, because of _healing_ ). “Don’t try and change the subject on the king of the subject-changers, Brucie. Something’s got you worked up enough that you just hugged a certified lunatic.” He switched to leaning against the wall, sitting on the bed.

Bruce took a deep breath; he was staring at the floor instead of looking at Jerome. “I visited your grave the other day.”

What? “Come here.” He patted the bed next to him. Bruce, surprisingly, obliged. “What d’you mean, you visited my grave? I’m not dead this time.”

He nodded. “It wasn’t real. Or – the grave was, but it wasn’t… It was Jeremiah,” he said at last.

“I’m not following.” If that _bitch-ass nerd_ had so much as messed up Bruce’s hair, Jerome swore to God –

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

What was he getting at? “Oh?”

Bruce blew out another harsh breath. “I was working with him on a project. It was – it was supposed to be a source of clean energy, but –”

“Working with him?” Jerome’s insides felt like they were about to explode. “With Jeremiah? Are you kidding – that’s not funny.”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce nearly-whispered.

“What, so you were just hanging out?” He stood up and paced to the other side of the cell. “Playing scientists and gossiping about stupid Jerome?” He knew it. Nobody cared about him. There was always a reason for things, and it was never the one you wanted it to be.

“No! I’d never –”

“You’d never lie, Bruce, huh? You’d never try and pull the strings?”

“He didn’t know!” Bruce looked almost scared. “I didn’t tell him anything. We were bettering the city, or at least I thought we were.”

“Jeremiah, better-er of cities. Right,” Jerome growled. Of course it had to be like this. Jeremiah always looked good, and Jerome always fell through the cracks.

“You sprayed him.”

Jerome stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t expected that to work when the rest of the gas didn’t, especially after hearing nothing about it. “Did he tell you that?” Maybe he could sell that as a Jeremiah Valeska Patented Lie. Well, not if the two nerds were all buddy-buddy now.

“I saw it. The effects, his face. What were you thinking, Jerome?”

“What effects?”

Bruce looked at him like _he_ was the liar. “He’s insane. He’s taken over your cult… his face is all white and his eyes are different. You drove him mad.”

Shit. That wasn’t what was supposed to happen. “How long’s it been?”

“Are you seriously changing the subject?”

“Shut up,” Jerome snapped, moving over toward the window. “It’s important, how long since I’ve been in here?”

“A-a month?”

“A month.” He tapped his fingers on his legs. “No, no, that can’t be right. He shouldn’t still be like that after a month, c’mon, what’s it actually been?”

“It’s been a month.” Bruce frowned at him as he turned back to face him. “Are you saying something’s wrong with your gas?”

Nothing was wrong with the gas. He’d checked the gas. Unless…

Unless it was the wrong gas.

“Damn it, Crane,” he muttered. He sat back down on the bed. “How hard can it possibly be to tell ‘em apart?”

“Jerome.”

“Yeah, uh –” He looked at Bruce. “I think that was the wrong gas.” Bruce looked back at him, but didn’t say anything, so he continued. “See, the right gas was just gonna mess him up for a bit, y’know, not permanently. Any of the prototype versions? Not so nice.”

Bruce looked stunned. “So you don’t know how he’s going to react to this?”

“Short answer, no.”

“Long answer?”

“Long answer, also no.”

There was a painfully long moment of silence.

Finally, Bruce spoke again. “I thought you were dead.”

“You’d just seen me.” Jerome raised an eyebrow.

“I know,” he said, rubbing at his eyes again. “But your grave was there, and it had your name on it, and Jeremiah said you were dead and I suppose he was just manipulating me, but I thought…” His voice broke off.

Jerome didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to think, either, or what he was feeling. “I’m not dead,” he said at last.

Bruce nodded and sniffed. Was he crying? Jeez. Jerome did not know how to deal with crying.

He looked over to where he knew the King of Hearts was sitting on the desk. Then he cleared his throat. “You can, uh –” What was he saying? “You can hug me again if you want.”

That was weird, wasn’t it? Way to ruin the moment, Jerome. He could play it off like a joke. Yeah. He opened his mouth, and then froze.

Bruce’s arms were wrapped tightly around him. There was the clean smell of his hair again, and the faint tickle of it against his chin. His breath was warm on Jerome’s neck. He fought back the urge to push Bruce away – again – and, finally, cautiously, hugged him back. It wasn’t something he was used to. The last time he’d held onto someone was using a hostage as a human shield. He could feel Bruce’s heartbeat.

Jerome’s chin, he found, fit perfectly over Bruce’s shoulder as if they were puzzle pieces. “Don’t worry, Hero,” he said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere just yet.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry about how long it's been!

Bruce

As soon as he stepped back through the doors of the asylum, Bruce was making a plan. He didn’t want to think too deeply about the – well, hugging – but now that he was 100% sure that Jerome wasn’t dead, he could focus on keeping it that way.

He drove home quickly, taking the corners faster than Alfred would approve of, but the hugging thing still chased after him. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed. His unconscious impulse had always been to wrap his arms around anyone he was worried about, unexpected as it might be by everyone involved. But he should have stopped himself, knowing how Jerome reacted to touch. Besides, he had enough to think about without the added concern of the way Jerome had hugged him back as if he were made of glass, the roughness of his scars against Bruce’s neck.

That brought him to the main issue: Jeremiah. If Jerome was right about the gas, there was really no saying what the long-lasting effects would be. It had already caused a physical transformation, not to mention a mental one… And Jeremiah was planning to kill his brother. Bruce had to do something. He was going to have to break into Arkham, and extract Jerome. But he couldn’t do that alone.

He pulled into the driveway, skidding slightly as he stopped, and strode inside to find Alfred.

The hallways of Wayne Manor felt extra long as he forced himself to stick to an indoor-appropriate pace. The kitchen was empty, as was the study and all the other rooms he checked. Where was Alfred? There was nothing to worry about, of course – the butler could take very good care of himself, but after everything going on recently, Bruce was more easily made anxious than usual. Finally, he entered the library.

Alfred heard him as he came in, and turned from where he stood dusting a shelf. “Back already, sir?”

“Yes.” Bruce nodded. “I was at Arkham visiting Jerome.”

“I’m well aware of that, Master Bruce.” He picked up a bookend and dusted underneath it. “And how is Mr. Valeska?”

“He’s healing all right. He was injured recently – by some other inmates, I don’t mean his pre-existing injuries.” How should he explain to Alfred what he was planning?

“I’m sure he gave as good as he got.”

“That’s the thing.” He leaned against the mantelpiece. “In his condition, and without any of his allies in there with him, I don’t think Jerome has the same power he did before. People are starting to realise he’s not so untouchable.”

“Losing his power – isn’t that good? I know you’ve got a soft spot for him, but still,” Alfred said, raising an eyebrow at him.

Bruce shook his head. “He’s not safe. I know he’s done terrible things, Alfred, but he doesn’t deserve to die in there. Not like that.” Not hurting, at the mercy of a group of people stronger than him. Not after the things he’d told Bruce about his childhood. Not while Bruce was around.

“So, what’s your solution? A donation to the asylum?”

Here went nothing. “It’s Jeremiah.”

“Pardon?”

He’d told Alfred about Jeremiah being gassed, but he hadn’t explained the threat he posed to Jerome. “Jeremiah told me he’s going to kill Jerome. He’s a sitting duck in Arkham, and there’s nobody protecting him.”

“Don’t tell me…”

“We have to break him out.”

Alfred set down the duster and turned fully to face him. “Master Bruce, with all due respect, are you out of your bloody mind?”

“It’s the only way to keep him safe.”

“No, it isn’t! We’ll call up the asylum and the police and notify them – they’ll take care of it. That’s their job.”

“Do you really trust them?”

The older man sighed. “How are you going to keep Jerome Valeska safe if the authorities can’t? Last time his brother took him right out from under our noses.”

“I trusted Jeremiah. I was wrong to.” As much as Jeremiah’s insanity wasn’t his fault, Bruce had been too quick to trust him. Now he wasn’t going to make that mistake.

“I can’t change your mind, can I?”

“No.” He knew Alfred didn’t like the danger he was putting them both in. Truth be told, there were times when Bruce, himself, wished things were different. But they weren’t.

“Then I won’t try to,” Alfred said. “How do you plan on getting him out?”

“That’s the thing. Somebody has to get in first.”

When Selina dropped silently through the study window later, Bruce was waiting for her. “Good evening,” he greeted her, holding out the mug of hot cocoa he’d brought up in anticipation of her visiting.

She tilted her head quizzically. “How’d you know I was coming?” Her fingertips were cold against his skin when she took the mug.

“I had a feeling.”

“You know you’re a weirdo, right?”

“You certainly keep me informed.” He smiled. Selina wouldn’t bring up the fight they’d had, but this was her way of dancing around a resolution. “Can I get you anything to eat?”

She considered it. “You got cookies?”

“Always.”

They went down to the kitchen; he walked in the sort of straight line he was accustomed to, while she weaved around him and slid down the banister. She knew her way to the cookie jar – after all, it hadn’t moved in the years she’d been part of the rarely-changing biosphere that was Wayne Manor. As she hopped up onto the kitchen counter next to it, Bruce leaned against the island facing her.

He pulled at the collar of his sweater apprehensively. “I know you don’t agree with my relationship with Jerome.”

“We had this conversation already,” she protested through a mouthful of cookie. “We don’t have to have it again, do we?”

Bruce pushed on. “You don’t have to like it – you’re absolutely right not to.”

“Oh. Uh, thanks?”

“He’s in danger.”

There was a pause. She gave him a look that asked him to be joking. “No,” she whined at last, throwing her head back so it bumped lightly into the cabinet behind her. “You’ve gotta be kidding!”

“I’m sorry,” he offered. “You weren’t all wrong, though.”

“I wasn’t wrong _at all_.” Selina took a violent bite out of a cookie.

“Jeremiah was sprayed with a mind-altering toxin. He was deceiving me all along –”

“Called it.” Her heels drummed lightly against the wooden drawers.

He frowned at her. “He’s going to try and kill Jerome. I have to stop it.”

“Okay, but isn’t Jerome the one who sprayed him in the first place?” She swallowed. “I’m not seeing a huge problem, no offense.”

“Jerome thinks the gas he’d intended to use was switched out with a prototype. He doesn’t know what this gas will do, but he’s the best bet to figure it out. Besides, I can’t let him die.”

She didn’t speak, just staring at him as if he had two heads. At last, she shrugged. “I can’t stop you. I want to, but I know I can’t.”

He nodded.

“Just don’t get yourself killed for this guy.” She rolled her eyes.

Bruce took a moment to build up to what he had to say. “Selina – I need your help.”

“Are you insane?” Her voice went shrill. “Are you high? You want me to – to _aid and abet_ Jerome freaking Valeska? No way!”

“He’ll die, Selina. And Jeremiah, too, and a lot more people.”

“No, no, see, that’s where you’re wrong. Cause Jerome’s the one who kills lots of people. Him being locked up is what’s stopping that, it’s not the problem!”

“I wouldn’t ask you if I wasn’t sure.”

“Sure!” Her eyes widened in a way that told him she was about to say something caustic. “I’m sure you’re out of your mind!”

“Selina –”

Alfred’s voice interrupted from the doorway. “I heard shouting, unless I’m very much mistaken.”

Selina gestured at him with a cookie in her hand. “Alfred, are you in on this? He’s crazy.”

“I’m afraid I am, Miss Kyle.”

She sputtered and her face went slightly red.

“Here,” Alfred said gently. “Let’s you and I talk one-on-one, shall we? If you’ll excuse us, Master Bruce.”

“Fine,” Selina agreed reluctantly, sliding off the counter and half-stomping across the floor toward the older man. They left together.

Bruce was left alone in the kitchen. Truthfully, that hadn’t gone as badly as it could have. Still, he hated the way things seemed to be, more and more, between him and Selina. Their friendship wasn’t the same as it used to be. It was his own fault – he’d been awful to her. He wanted to fix things. He would, as soon as Jerome was safe and everything was all right again. He took a cookie from the jar and sunk deeper into introspection.

After a long while, Alfred and Selina returned. Bruce looked up sharply, trying to read their faces without much luck.

Selina shuffled her feet and huffed. “I’ll help. But it’s not on me when it hits the fan.”

“Thank you.” He strode forward and wrapped his arms around her. “Thank you, Selina.” Alfred smiled down at him, and Bruce smiled back, genuinely.

“Yeah,” Selina muttered. “Whatever. I just don’t want you getting yourself killed without me there, you know.”

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Selina be like:  
> "Is it crack? Is that what you smoke? You smoke crack?"


	26. Chapter 26

Jerome

Jerome woke up with a start. It was nighttime, or at least he thought it must be, and he couldn’t tell what had woken him. Of course, he was a light sleeper anyway.

He turned over, forehead creasing at the hard mattress on his healing injuries. His hair tickled his nose and he pushed it away as his eyes closed again. Then he froze.

There – a scraping noise, coming from somewhere above him. That wasn’t a normal sound. He sat up slowly and quietly, tilting his head to listen.

On second thought, he did know that noise. Somebody was in the vents. Who, he didn’t know: as far as he’d ever figured, Jerome was the only person to try climbing around in there. His vent was screwed closed from the other side now, and it wasn’t like it was easy to figure out where you were going. Unless somebody was coming to kill him. Yeah, it was probably that, he thought as the noise got closer and closer.

He hadn’t been lying to Bruce. He really didn’t know what was going on with Jeremiah, if he’d gotten the wrong gas. But he expected that that asshole would want him dead. He’d probably send that blonde bodyguard – Echo? Right, Ecco – to finish the job Jim Gordon had failed at.

It startled him, almost, when the square vent on the ceiling of the cell was dragged aside from above. The intruder landed almost silently on the hard floor and stood up. “Time to go, ginger,” she whispered just loud enough to carry.

“Nice pickup line. Maybe next time start with an introduction, though, you know?” So it wasn’t Ecco. He squinted up at the girl, trying to connect her short, curly hair to a name. She seemed familiar.

“Don’t make me regret agreeing to break you out.”

Ah, that glare rang a bell. She was Bruce’s acquaintance-of-undefined-nature – Selina from the diner. Were she and Bruce just friends, or what? He didn’t know. “Still got the whip?” he asked, sidetracked.

She tapped her foot impatiently. “Trust me, I don’t need it to kick your ass. Now get up, I don’t wanna spend more time in here than I have to.”

“ _Do_ you have to?” Did Bruce send her? Did Jeremiah?

“Bruce cares about you,” she said. “I don’t like it, and I’m only here for him.”

Bruce cared about him. He knew that, but – openly. Enough to tell people about. Well, hopefully not cops – although Bruce and Jerome would be a great criminal dynamic duo if the cops ever found out. “Love the blunt honesty.” Jerome grinned at her and stood up. “Best bedside manner I’ve ever seen.”

Selina didn’t say anything in response. Jerome passed her and went over to the desk, picking up the King of Hearts and his diary. “Shall we?”

“You’re bringing stuff?”

“Oh, just the necessities.”

“Whatever.” She hoisted herself into the vent. “C’mon.”

He was almost a little concerned (though he avoided actually feeling worried, of course) that he wouldn’t be able to pull himself up, what with his injuries and all. Luckily, he made it into the vent, heaving his body up into the metal chute with a definite lack of grace. Selina put the vent cover back into place with a low clunk.

It was almost pitch-black inside. As she squeezed past him to lead the way, they nearly got stuck. It was a tight space, tight enough to cramp just one person; Selina elbowed him in the ribs and neck on her way past. It might have been on purpose. He wouldn’t kill her for it, though, because he needed her to show him the way out. (And, okay, Bruce liked her, and he wouldn’t like Jerome if he killed her.) He just dragged himself along behind her on his elbows, dodging her booted feet.

The first corner was tricky. He was out of practice, climbing around in here, and the specific twist he had to do to get his body around the left-hand bend wasn’t easy to remember. Selina, of course, didn’t have the same problem. She was a lot shorter than him.

His muscles started to ache after a while – they’d been around at least five more corners, and up two inclines. It didn’t help that he was pulling his diary along with him, but if he left it behind they’d just read it and make more notes on him. The King of Hearts was in his chest pocket. Every so often, Jerome picked up yelling or groaning from inmates, and there was the occasional metallic thumping that didn’t come from him or Selina. They were out of high-security, for sure. The mean guards could only really get at the gen-pop inmates. Well, easily, anyway. The air inside the vents was stale and warm.

Finally, after another steep uphill, Selina rotated herself in the tight space and kicked open the metal panel in front of her. She landed in a funny crouch, one leg out to the side, and Jerome slid himself out less smoothly and ended up doing a pretty passable imitation of somebody who’d meant to land on their ass all along. They were outside, on the roof. The night sky was dark above them; light pollution crept over the part of it that was toward the city. The air smelled fresh, a lot better than inside. It was cold enough, though, that the slight breeze cut right through his uniform.

“You got a ladder or something?” he asked, not convinced there was a good way to get down from here otherwise.

Selina shushed him. Another thing he was not going to kill her for.

“Well?” he whispered.

“There’s a drainpipe.”

“Great, more climbing.” He got up and followed her to the edge of the roof.

Jerome had never really had a phobia. He was fine with small spaces, he was used to clowns and snakes, he’d never gone swimming to find out if he was scared of water. Looking down from the top of the asylum to the ground, though, he felt his chest get a little tight. Maybe it was because of almost falling the day of the gas. He wasn’t about to get scared of heights all of a sudden now, though. That would be stupid.

The drainpipe was thin and metal, attached close to the wall. Selina started to climb down it easily. Jerome managed to get a grip on it after a lot of effort: his diary was clamped tight in his armpit. His hands were a bit slippery. The metal was freezing cold, and his hair hit him in the face more than he would’ve liked.

Finally, they reached the ground – it felt like he’d been climbing down for an hour. Selina pulled him down to crouch next to her against the rough brick wall, feet crunching the loose pebbles on the pavement beneath them.

“There’s a hole under the fence there,” she whispered into his ear. He stiffened at the feeling of her hair on his neck, and concentrated on remembering where she was pointing. “Follow me.”

She stayed low, moving quickly and quietly across the open space. Jerome shifted his weight, preparing to follow, but he dropped his diary and stopped to pick it up. He saw Selina turn her head to look for him out of the corner of his eye.

A guard rounded the corner and saw her too.

Selina was fast, but she was distracted, and the guard was on her before she could react. Another came after the first one, and they ganged up on her. She landed a few good hits, but it was obvious that she wasn’t going to win.

The hole under the fence was right there. The guards were distracted, and Selina would be out of the way. He’d be stupid not to run now.

The sharp corner of the card in his pocket poked him through the cloth of his uniform. Jerome cursed under his breath and ran.

The first guard’s throat pulsing under his arm was a familiar feeling. He waited until the man was limp in his grasp and dropped him, his own breathing heavy. Selina whipped herself around, using her legs to bring the other guard down. “I had it,” she panted.

He grinned and bent down to pick up his diary, which he’d dropped. “When have I ever missed a chance to show off?”

They ran to the dark edge of the asylum lot. Selina disappeared into the grass at the base of the fence, and Jerome went after her, squeezing through the hole dug out of the dirt.

“Hang on,” she whispered, pulling at something on the ground. “Gotta cover our tracks.”

Oh – it was the sod she’d removed to make the hole. That was smart, he had to hand it to her. He helped her push it into place with the hand that wasn’t occupied with his diary. Then they both trudged through the forest, into the darkness.

The sound of bugs chirping was almost as loud as their feet on the wet ground. “D’you break in and out of Arkham a lot?” Jerome asked.

“Not often,” she responded bluntly. The fact that she’d been successful more than once was honestly impressive.

Sirens suddenly drowned out the other noise. They’d noticed Jerome was gone. The cops were probably already on their way, and Jerome and Selina were way too close to be safe. They started running; she grabbed his arm and pulled him along to the left. Her grip was tight, but not like he was used to. He wouldn’t have bruises there tomorrow. Distracted, he tripped over a fallen branch next to a backroad and fell, clutching at his diary and the open top of his chest pocket. The roar of an engine approached, and brakes skidded to a stop in front of them. Selina pulled open the front passenger door and got in. Jerome scrambled to his feet.

He should get in, right? After all, Bruce had broken him out. Unless he just wanted her back. He’d look weak if he tried to get in and Bruce didn’t want him.

The back door was shoved open to reveal Alfred, leaning over from the left side. “C’mon, son, we haven’t got all night.”

_Son._

Jerome got in and closed the door behind him.


	27. Chapter 27

Jerome

 _Crash_. The loud noise had Jerome’s eyes shooting open, blinking to clear his vision. Someone was knocking at the door. _Uncle Zach_ , was his first thought – then, _no, a guard_. No, that wasn’t right either. He looked around him, confused for a minute.

Right. He was at Bruce’s house, in the room he’d had last time. Who was knocking? There wasn’t any clock, so he didn’t know what time it was, but the harshness of the noise told him it wasn’t Bruce or Alfred. He got out of bed, slightly hindered by the blankets tucked in around him, and narrowed his eyes at the door.

Whoever it was knocked again, louder. Jerome clenched his jaw and strode forward; he yanked the door open with equal violence to the knocking.

It was that Selina girl. “Jeez, you sleep heavy.”

“You knock heavy,” he shot back, less cleverly than he would’ve liked had he been more awake.

“It’s 10:30.” She had her hands on her hips. “Alfred made pancakes, and I’m gonna make a real effort to eat them all before you get down there, so hurry up.”

“What, all four feet of you?”

She snorted. “Big talk coming from a guy still in his pajamas.”

He looked down at himself, taken off guard. His what? Oh. Right. He had pajamas here – now that he was thinking about it, he vaguely remembered finding them on the end of the bed last night and putting them on. Selina must have left while he was distracted, because he heard her yelling from down the hall. “Better get your psycho ass downstairs, ginger!”

Jerome closed the door, blinked a few times, and yawned. Then he cracked his neck and set about waking up for real.

He checked the mirror in the bathroom one last time before going downstairs. He didn’t want to miss breakfast – not that he was worried about when he was going to eat next or anything, but who knew – but he had to make sure he looked okay. Every performer worth his salt had to have a costume, after all. He’d brushed his teeth and thrown cold water at his face, and he had on a red-and-black striped sweater and black jeans. His hair was pretty hopeless: it was getting long enough that it didn’t stand up, so instead it just sort of flopped wherever it happened to flop. His attempts to push it back had mostly failed.

At last, he was going down the creaky stairs, footsteps tapping with the hard soles of his Arkham shoes. The smell of pancakes led him toward the kitchen. He pushed the wooden door open with one hand and slipped inside.

“Slept late?” Alfred asked. They were all there – Selina seemed to be following through on her threat to eat as many pancakes as she possibly could without bursting. She was perched on a chair at the table, one leg squished up to her chest. Alfred was still flipping pancakes on a griddle on the counter. Bruce was next to Selina, wearing a knit sweater; the material was as thick as he usually seemed to like, but it was grey instead of black, and not a turtleneck. He’d showered – his hair was damp and curly. He looked very soft this morning.

“Have some orange juice,” commanded Alfred. “None of you heathens get enough fruit into you.”

“Yeah, cause it’s the worst.” Selina’s voice was muffled by the food inside it.

“I think you’ll find scurvy is the worst.” Alfred set a plate in front of Jerome as he sat across from the others. “And that’s what you’ll get without fruit.”

Jerome half-filled an empty glass with the juice. He took a sip and his face scrunched up at the sharp taste, unused to it, especially since it wasn’t watered down. The syrup was real maple, which, he discovered as he burned his tongue on the first bite of pancake, didn’t taste anything like the table syrup stuff at all. Well, they were both sweet, but beyond that totally different. Of course, he wasn’t exactly a pancake syrup connoisseur.

“So,” he rasped out eventually. “Your guys’ new hobby’s aiding and abetting high-profile fugitives, huh? Well, I guess only new for Miss Kitty Cat.” The girl in question made a face at him, and he grinned sharply back.

Bruce’s eyebrows drew together and he sighed. “Let’s not talk about it today. Let’s just put it off till tomorrow.”

“Fine by me.” Jerome shrugged. “You got big plans?”

“Just resting.”

Selina snorted. “You, rest?”

“We deserve a day.”

“Hell yes,” she said, pumping her fist. “We haven’t done normal fun stuff in forever!”

“Too busy saving the world?” Jerome didn’t know what ‘normal fun stuff’ meant to Bruce and Selina. Probably two-person, no-gingers-allowed stuff.

Bruce smiled in a way that Jerome hadn’t seen very often. “I think last time, you promised me a rematch at Catan.”

“Like you’re ever gonna win.”

“You’re forgetting one thing,” said Bruce, leaning on his hands with a gleam in his dark eyes.

She rolled her eyes. “What?”

He gestured across the table at Jerome. “This time, there’s an unpredictable variable.”

What the hell was a Catan?

Settlers of Catan, as it turned out, was one of the fiddliest games imaginable. The board, which Bruce had set up on the coffee table in the library, was made up of about a hundred million little cardboard hexagons, all pushed together to make an island. They all had different things they represented, like wheat or bricks or sheep. The point of the game was to collect points by building stuff with the resources you collected.

Jerome rolled a seven with the two dice they were using.

“That means you move the robber piece,” Bruce reminded him.

“Right.” He picked up the robber, a tiny black piece shaped like a chess piece, and twirled it between his fingers. “Okay, I wanna rob the bank.”

Selina tapped her sharp fingernails on the table. “It’s not a bank, it’s just resource cards. And you can’t rob it.”

“Yeah, they tell you that about real banks too, but it’s still possible. What’s the point of having a robber if I can only steal stuff from you, anyway?”

“Just play the piece, clown boy.”

He put it down on a hexagon that both of the others had built houses around. “Ill-gotten gains, please, Mittens.”

“Don’t call me that,” she protested. “And why don’t you pick on Bruce?”

“Brucie didn’t call me a clown boy.” He shot her a smug smile, holding his hand out for the card she had to give him.

Now the Jerome’s turn was over, Bruce rolled the dice. “Besides, Selina, you’re winning. It only makes sense.”

“He didn’t know that,” she muttered.

“I gotta be close behind, though, right?”

“You only have four points,” Bruce pointed out.

“But I have all these road pieces down! I have the longest road!”

“Two of your points are from that.”

“This is so much dumber than torture.” Jerome leaned back dramatically against the couch.

He stared up at the ceiling while Selina took her turn. “I’m building a house,” she said, triumphant. “That’s ten points. I win again!”

His back cracked as he rocked forward to see the board. “No way, count it again.”

“She’s right.” Bruce sighed. “She always wins, though.”

“You’re too polite for this,” she crowed.

Jerome looked at Bruce. “Guess the ‘unpredictable variable’ thing didn’t work out for you, huh?”

“Actually, it took her longer than normal.”

Selina cleared her throat. “Since I won, I get to make a demand.”

Here it came. Two-person, no gingers allowed.

“I get to pick a movie for tonight, and nobody gets to complain.”

Huh. Gingers allowed.

They put the movie on when it got dark outside.

“It’s neither Halloween nor Christmas,” Bruce remarked as Selina slid the disc into the video player. “This is entirely the wrong time for this movie.”

“I said no complaining! Plus, it doesn’t have to be Halloween or Christmas.”

“It’s called ‘The Nightmare Before Christmas’,” the dark-haired boy deadpanned. “It takes place in Halloweentown.”

“Sounds like my kinda place.” Jerome’s popcorn was almost gone already.

Selina grabbed her own bowl on her way back to the couch and pressed play. “Shut up, it’s starting.”

Yeah, this was definitely a Halloween movie. There were ghosts and witches and things singing about Halloween, and everything. This was also a musical.

“Wait wait wait!” Selina scrambled for the pause button after a few minutes (the song was still going). “That’s you!”

“Me?” It was a fat clown with a polka-dot hat.

“He said he’s ‘the clown with the tear-away face’. Are you kidding me?” She laughed. “That’s perfect.”

Okay, that was fair. And funny. Jerome chuckled.

“Press play,” Bruce said. “Or we’ll never finish this.”

Bruce had been right. By the time they were near the end of the movie, Jerome was the only one still awake, and even he was getting sleepy. As he yawned, Bruce shifted, and his head moved to land on the redhead’s shoulder. That weird tickly feeling inside his chest hit him, but it didn’t feel so bad. He stayed very still, not wanting to disturb Bruce, and eventually closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep as the credits rolled.


	28. Chapter 28

Bruce

Bruce ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. After sleeping upright on the couch, he wasn’t nearly as awake as he would have preferred, and it was laughably difficult to focus both on nursing his mug of coffee and trying to begin planning to stop Jeremiah. What he had so far was a single piece of lined paper that read “Jeremiah Plan” at the top in Selina’s run-on handwriting, with a few doodles in red pen around the title courtesy of Jerome. Bruce was the only one yet to contribute. Even Alfred had an excuse for his absence, being out in the city grocery shopping.

He leaned back in the chair in front of the study desk and looked pensively over at Jerome and Selina. She was perched on a side table while she drank her own coffee, and the redhead was trying to drink his orange juice with the entire circumference of the glass inside his mouth. Bruce assumed that hot drinks might remind him of soup, and that was why he hadn’t jumped at the chance for caffeine, but who knew. At least Alfred would be pleased to know that his warnings about scurvy had perhaps had some effect.

“What’s he planning?” he asked, finally. “He has some goal, he has to.”

“Yeah, hoard as much hair dye as he can get,” Selina put in. Jerome tried to laugh through his juice without much success.

“The bombs have to be important. He said he’s hidden them around the city, but where? And why?”

“God complex,” said Jerome, removing the glass from his mouth.

Bruce looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

“He has a total god complex. Probably just flexing his power or something.”

“Like how? You know him. What does he want?”

“Uh –” The older boy shrugged. “To play god, I guess. Y’know, creation, destruction, manipulation…” His voice trailed off and he set the glass down roughly on the table next to him, standing up and pacing forward. “How many bombs?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce responded. “We built six originally, but he could’ve made more.”

“And they’re pretty strong? Like, knock-down-buildings strong?”

“Yes.” That was clear from Jeremiah’s demonstrations.

“Where’s a map?”

Bruce pulled one out of the desk’s drawer, where it had been rolled up. Jerome darted toward him and leaned over his shoulder to look at it; his closeness and body heat reminded Bruce uncomfortably of the time spent in the lab with Jeremiah. The tips of his ears warmed despite himself as Jerome muttered to himself and reached a hand over to draw lines between points in the city.

“You learning geography, or do we get to know what you’re doing?” Selina asked.

“He’s gonna build it again,” Jerome said quietly, half under his breath.

Bruce frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The city – everything. He’s gonna tear it down and rebuild it.”

“But why?”

The redhead straightened up and started pacing again. “It’s like I said, he has a total god complex. And he’s obsessed with you, Brucie, you’re Adam.”

“I’m not following.” Yes, Jeremiah seemed fixated on him, but…

Jerome stopped and fixed him with serious eyes. “Brucie, he’s building a maze. He’s building you Eden.”

There was no time to even process what he’d said before the phone rang. Bruce picked it up, wheels spinning inside his brain. “Hello?”

He half-expected it to be Jeremiah, but it was Gordon’s voice on the other end. “Bruce, we need to talk.”

“Detective Gordon.” The greeting was as much to inform the others in the room as it was for the sake of being polite. “What’s this about?”

“It’s about the Valeskas.” Gordon sighed. “As you know, Jeremiah and Jerome are both in hiding, and I don’t know which one is more concerning.”

“Yes, I heard about the breakout from Arkham. What do you need to talk to me about?”

The detective seemed to gather his thoughts before speaking again. “Your relationship with both twins is – complicated, to put it lightly. Spending all that time in the bunker, chasing Jerome up onto the roof…”

‘Complicated’ was putting it far more lightly than Jim knew. “Are you implying something, Detective Gordon?”

“No, well, not as such. Look, Bruce, can we talk in person? I can drive out there now.”

It was a violation of the rules of etiquette, and inviting himself over told Bruce that Gordon wasn’t going to take no for an answer in this case. He should have anticipated that suspicion might fall on him to some degree. But now? This was a really, really bad time. “Alright,” he said, because there wasn’t anything else he could say. “Alfred isn’t at home, but I’ll talk with you.”

“Great. I’ll head right over.” Gordon hung up without saying goodbye, which, again, was impolite.

Bruce set down the phone and turned to Jerome and Selina. “That was Detective Gordon.”

“We heard,” Selina noted.

Jerome had been pacing throughout the call, and he stopped. “Good ol’ Jimbo! What’d he want?”

“He’s coming. He thinks I know where you are,” he said to Jerome.

“He’s coming – what, you mean now?” Selina raised her eyebrows.

Bruce nodded.

“But you do know where he is!”

“You do,” Jerome agreed with tension in his voice. “I’m here.”

Bruce shot the both of them an exasperated look. Of course he knew that. What else would he have brought it up for? “You two need to go hide in the house somewhere. I’m going to keep him on the first floor, but be quiet, all right?”

“Why do I have to hide?” Selina complained.

“Because it’s easier if you’re together.” And the last time he left Jerome alone in the house, when somebody came over like this, Jeremiah had taken him and he’d almost died. But he wasn’t going to say that. “You can be in my room.”

Muttering accompanied Jerome and Selina out of the room after a three-way staring contest, and Bruce slumped over the desk for a moment once they were out of sight. This was a nightmare. The sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway reached him before long; he started down the stairs to meet Gordon at the door.

He heard a knock just as he reached the front door. After waiting a few seconds to breathe deeply and hope that Jerome and Selina were out of the way, he pulled the heavy wood open to reveal Detective Gordon standing awkwardly, as if unused to sticking in one place for any amount of time, on the front step. “Detective,” Bruce greeted him politely.

“Bruce.” Jim’s eyes flicked over Bruce and past him into the hallway, scanning for anything amiss. “Can I come in?”

The younger boy stepped aside and led the way down the front hall. “As I mentioned over the phone, Alfred’s out at the moment. I’ll boil water for tea, if you don’t mind talking in the kitchen.” Unorthodox, but out of the way, hopefully. Jim, to his credit, understood that arguing would be entirely useless. He didn’t like tea.

They entered the kitchen and Bruce went about putting water on. The television in the corner was playing quietly – somebody must have left it on. It made him a little uneasy. Too many things today were uncannily similar to what had happened right before Jerome’s most recent stay in Arkham. Jim and Bruce in the kitchen, with the TV on: last time, the police captain had nearly shot and killed Jerome.

“So, what is it you’d like to talk about?” He leaned against the counter, across the island from Gordon.

“The Valeska twins. You understand I have to follow every possible lead, and you have more history with both of them than just about anyone else.”

“So the idea is that I’m aiding and abetting one or both of them.” On the phone, Gordon had sidestepped this statement, but the arch of Bruce’s eyebrows wouldn’t allow it this time.

Jim sighed and dropped his eyes momentarily. “It’s not what I’d like to believe, but it’s one idea, yes.”

“Both of them have tried to kill me, Jerome on multiple occasions.” It was hard to lie so bluntly to a police detective of all people, and to make it believable. Not to mention that Jim was, in a way, a friend (and, in a way, an odd sort of father figure after Alfred). Not to mention that he was the officer who’d first convicted Jerome; who’d dedicated himself to Bruce’s parents’ murder; who’d helped Selina escape child traffickers so long ago.

“On the other hand, you ran after Jerome on the rooftop that day to save him, didn’t you? And you seemed awfully close with Jeremiah. You don’t look entirely unconnected to them, Bruce.”

“Perhaps not entirely, but –”

Gordon’s gaze caught on the TV screen and his eyes went wide. “Turn that up,” he demanded hoarsely. Bruce turned and did as he said as soon as he saw the face plastered across the screen.

“…I’m sure those watching are aware of the explosive devices I’ve planted across the city,” Jeremiah Valeska was saying. His hair was dark now, making his already-waxen face look even paler; his washed-out eyes fixed the camera coldly. It looked as if he was wearing lipstick. “Specifically the GCPD and relevant authorities. I have a demand that seemed more appropriate for a widespread message. My brother, Jerome, has escaped Arkham Asylum. He was broken out, I presume.”

Gordon and Bruce made uneasy eye contact.

“I am willing to exchange extra time to evacuate the city for Jerome’s recapture, and subsequently his being handed over to me,” Jeremiah continued. “Time, again, is of course of the essence, and I have telephoned the mayor’s office with additional demands. If I am refused in this, my bombs will detonate immediately. It is in all involved parties’ best interests to believe that I am not bluffing. I want Jerome, and I will have him at all costs.” His red lips curved into a smile. “The clock is ticking.”

The signal cut out. Bruce reached out with a slightly-shaky hand to turn it off altogether, and a heavy silence hung in the air.

“You need to tell me everything you know.” Jim’s face was deadly serious.

“I can’t.”

The captain’s fists clenched. “It’s not about you now, or even Jerome.” He said the name like it tasted bad. “The entire city is in danger here. Where is he?”

“You want to give in to Jeremiah?” Bruce protested.

“If saving thousands of people costs giving one psychopath to another, then yes. I’m willing to go along with it.”

“Aren’t you even going to try and stop him?” He knew it was impossible. Jeremiah would detonate the bombs early if the police got overinvolved.

“This is it,” Gordon snapped. “This is trying to stop him, Bruce. I’m asking you to be honest with me, to do the right thing: _do you know where Jerome is?_ ”

What was the right thing? Saving the city was the greater good, he knew that – but something sharp and protective swelled in his chest, not allowing him to give Jerome up. Jerome was his, it argued. His responsibility and his friend and – and Bruce needed him. That was the one thing he knew for sure. He couldn’t hand Jerome off to Jeremiah. He set his jaw.

“The police can’t stop Jeremiah,” he said, “But what about other criminals? They might know where he’s hiding, even where the bombs are, and they could help take him down. Offer them –” He had an idea. “Offer them retrial, or reduced sentencing or even pardon, if they have something to offer and they help.”

Gordon’s eyes narrowed, and as he stepped forward Bruce realised that he may have shown his hand. “You’re talking about Jerome.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“There’s no way in hell he, of all people, gets any kind of pardon after all he’s done. I don’t understand why you don’t see that – there’s no humanity in him, Bruce! He’s totally insane.”

“He knows Jeremiah.” Bruce’s mouth was almost still, compressed into a line. “He’s the only one who might be able to stop the bombs altogether, and that’s a lot more than you’re hoping for.”

“Bruce –”

“Even if I did know anything about Jerome’s whereabouts, Captain Gordon, I would not feel obligated to disclose that information unless you were to come back with some kind of warrant.”

_“Bruce –”_

“I’m sure you know your way to the door, unless there’s something else you would like to discuss.” Bruce’s eyes were hard; after a few moments, Jim conceded the staring contest and exhaled, frustrated. He turned and stomped away, and the front door slammed shut soon after. Once Bruce heard his car drive off, he finally let his body relax, slumping over the counter.

Light footsteps approached, and Selina appeared in the doorway. “Didn’t go well?”

He shook his head without speaking.

“Well,” she said, shifting uncomfortably. “You know how there’s a TV in your room, and you told us to go to your room?”

Oh no. “Jeremiah’s broadcast.”

“Yeah. Uh, he’s not doing so good, I don’t think. Which is not my department. So…”

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath, passing her on his way out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

His room was empty, television still turned on. Where was Jerome? He sped up, looking into every room until he’d reached the end of the hallway. The door at the very end was slightly ajar; it led to what, long ago, had been the servants’ stairway, going all the way up and down the house in a sharp-cornered spiral. His intuition told him to go up.

Two corners up, Jerome came into view. He was sitting with his back to the wall and his legs pulled up close to his chest, one foot tapping. There was a distant look on his face.

Bruce sat across from him. “You saw the broadcast.”

“Yeah. What a makeover, huh?” His smile wasn’t genuine. “Bold choice with the hair, y’know, ‘specially since he didn’t bother dying his eyebrows.”

“Are you all right?”

Jerome’s eyes snapped up to his for a split second before continuing to roam around everywhere else. “I’m always fine, Brucie. You know that.”

He nodded. He knew what Jerome really meant. He wasn’t fine, though he’d never say so, especially not when Jeremiah was involved.

“I’m going.”

Bruce looked sharply at Jerome this time. “What?”

“He wants me,” the older boy explained. “And your precious city’s on the line. So I’ll go, you don’t have to convince me.”

“But it’s almost definitely a trap – I mean, he only wants to hurt or kill you.”

Jerome sighed, a rattling noise in his throat. “I know.”

“So why would you…”

“I’m in your debt. Have been for a while, and since you saved my life, I can spend it helping the city you love so much.” He shrugged, but his eyes looked suddenly very tired. “I don’t like owing people.”

“But you hate Gotham. And you don’t owe me.”

“You saved my life, Hero. A couple of times.”

“That doesn’t put you in my debt!” Bruce’s breathing quickened as he felt something start to slip out of his grasp.

“You saved me.” Jerome leaned forward; his voice was quiet. “You know what I mean.”

Bruce’s eyes started to sting. “Stop it, Jerome. Just – I –” He took a deep, shaky breath. “You can’t go, okay?”

“You would.”

“Yes, but, Jerome, I – I can’t let you go. I need you to stay,” he pleaded, wiping a traitorously wet eye with the sleeve of his sweater. “Please.”

Jerome’s face shifted almost convulsively. His mouth moved between a tight frown and, maybe, a small, soft smile; it was impossible to tell whether his eyes were happy or sad. But it was the most real Bruce had ever seen him. “Is there any other option?”

“There’s always another option.” Bruce thought of the reduced-sentence idea. It just might work, if only Jim would see reason. “Please don’t go, Jerome.”

The older boy took a long time to respond. “Okay,” he said at last. “I’ll stick around.”

Bruce’s wrapping his arms tightly around him was less of a conscious decision and more of an instinct, a need. Jerome’s scars were both soft and rough on his neck as he lowered his head to rest into the embrace, something new. Bruce shut his eyes tight and pretended, for a moment, that everything was okay.


	29. Chapter 29

Jerome

Four was the number of knives Jerome had tucked away on his person. Zero was the number of them Bruce knew about, and one was the number of them that Selina had noticed and raised an eyebrow at earlier. He hadn’t seen Jim Gordon in person since he’d almost let him die, and taking into account their history he wasn’t taking any chances. Besides, even if Jimbo had actually agreed to Bruce’s _‘let Jerome go in exchange for helping take out Jeremiah’_ plan, it was crazy enough that Jerome might end up protecting Bruce from being locked up in Arkham. Joking. Still, though.

After talking more with Bruce, apparently Gordon had decided it was his only option, and today he was coming over to get planning for real. He was bringing some guy called Lucius Fox with him, and the only reason Jerome remembered his name was because it was on the weirder side, and he was dying to know what kind of person was named that.

Gordon and Fox – Foxy, he could call him, though didn’t that sound sort of familiar? – had entered the house a minute ago. Jerome had heard them at the door talking with Alfred; he, Bruce, and Selina were up in the study waiting. He tapped his foot on the floor restlessly, standing a little way behind Bruce, who was sitting in front of the big desk. His eyes caught on the thick knit of Bruce’s dark-grey sweater: it seemed like the dark-haired boy had an unlimited number of almost-identical sweaters. Selina was wearing the same black leather jacket and black jeans as always. Jerome, personally, had on grey pants and a sort of fancy-looking yellow sweater, with his white boots. He would’ve worn a dress shirt and a vest, but it was a bit chilly and he’d decided to sacrifice that outfit for the sake of not shivering the whole time.

Footsteps approached the doorway and he went back over the locations of his knives, internally.

And there he was. Jim Gordon. James. Jimothy. Asshole.

“Bruce,” the police captain said as he entered the room. “Selina.”

“Jimbo!” Jerome grinned at him, flashing his teeth and scars. “What’s up?”

Gordon’s hand moved ever-so-slightly toward his holster before he got himself under control. “Valeska,” he grated out.

“Aw, and here I thought we were on first-name basis.”

Alfred and another man entered. This must be Lucius Fox – the name suited him, surprisingly. You couldn’t be just some dumbass with a name like that, and this guy was definitely not that. Whether that was good or bad, he didn’t know. Fox wasn’t a cop, that was clear from his dark-blue pinstriped suit, next to Gordon’s uniform. He had short hair and dark skin, black eyes taking in his surroundings systematically.

“Captain Gordon, Mr. Fox, I’m glad you came.” Bruce stood up politely. “Please, sit,” he said, gesturing toward the other chairs on the other side of the desk. Lucius did, but Gordon stayed standing.

“I’d rather stand,” he said, looking pointedly at Jerome, who rolled his eyes.

“If Mr. Valeska was going to put anyone here in much danger, Captain Gordon,” Alfred cut in, “I’m sure he would have already.”

Jerome did a small double-take at being called ‘Mr. Valeska’: Alfred tended to call everyone by formal names like that, but it always caught him off-guard a bit. Plus, Valeska was his mother’s mother’s maiden name or something, and judging by Lila and Zach she was probably a bitch. He had mixed feelings about the name. It did sound flashy, he guessed, and maybe it was kind of cool to be a ‘Mr.’ and not so much a ‘stupid no-good brat’ or, worse, a ‘Jeremiah’ (that one was always followed by a disappointed look when people realised it was Jerome. Point was ‘Mr. Valeska’ felt kind of weird. Especially when just Jerome would’ve worked fine, coming from Alfred, who really didn’t need to be nice and fancy with him of all people.

He blinked, focusing back in on the room around him. Gordon had sat down, and Selina had moved from a shelf in the corner to the corner of the desk. Her biggest enemy was sitting on actual chairs, clearly. Alfred met his eyes and nodded slightly, and they both sat down, Jerome pulling one of the empty chairs over to sit right next to Bruce. Gordon glared at him as he did so, and he grinned back like he was daring him to do something about it.

“So,” Bruce broke the awkward silence. “Jeremiah plans to detonate a number of bombs hidden around the city. We need to find them, and him.”

Gordon shifted in his seat. “I don’t understand why you’re so against turning Jerome over.”

“You don’t understand much, though,” Jerome shot back.

“You’re lucky I don’t arrest you right now, so shut your mouth –”

“Gordon!” Bruce snapped.

“Shove it up your ass,” Selina drawled from her perch.

Jerome resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at Jim.

“There are approximately six devices, correct?” Lucius was a big staying-on-topic guy, looked like.

Bruce nodded. “That’s how many we built together, though he used one blowing up his bunker with Captain Gordon inside. He could have built more on his own – it wouldn’t be easy getting the materials, but it’s still a possibility.”

“So five bombs, and they could be anywhere in the city.” Gordon frowned.

“Not just anywhere,” Jerome contradicted. “Places that make sense.”

“You’re the expert on sense now? Bruce, is he threatening you or blackmailing you or something?”

“Of course not.”

“Then he must have sprayed you with that insanity gas or –”

“Hey,” Jerome said in a loud voice. “Leave him outta this.”

Lucius put a hand on Gordon’s shoulder. “Jim, you need all the help you can get with stopping Jeremiah. Your personal feelings have to be put aside for the time being.”

Gordon exhaled sharply. “Fine. All I’m saying is, how do we know the Valeskas aren’t working together behind our backs?”

Jerome hated when people talked about him like he wasn’t right there. “I wouldn’t help out that son of a bitch even if his plans didn’t cause me problems. He ruined my life, Jimbo. If nothing else, I wanna make him hurt.”

Bruce looked over at him, eyes soft around the edges. Jerome sat back in his chair, having leaned forward menacingly without really realising it. Jeremiah’s plan did cause him problems, now, though he would’ve loved it just months ago. Now there was Bruce to think about. Bruce loved Gotham. Gotham belonged to Bruce (his mind flashed back to the King of Hearts card), and when you cared about someone, he thought, you didn’t let their things get stolen, even if you hate those things with all your heart.

Jerome didn’t want to burn Gotham down anymore. But he’d set the whole world on fire if it meant Bruce would see that his home was untouched.


	30. Chapter 30

Bruce

Gordon, Bruce reminded himself, was a good detective. He was determined, and he tried hard to do the right thing. But it was hard to keep himself from gritting his teeth at how _unhelpful_ the captain was being. Really, unhelpful was something he ought to have been used to considering the others in the room, with the exception of Alfred and Lucius. Gordon usually knew what to do, though, and it was infuriating how he couldn’t seem to get past Jerome’s being there.

At the moment, Gordon and Jerome were arguing over where exactly Jeremiah had placed the bombs. Jerome insisted that he would take out tall buildings and routes off the island; Gordon maintained that Jeremiah would focus on city hall and other important buildings, maybe Arkham.

“Why the hell would he wanna blow up Arkham?” Jerome was leaning over the map from where he sat next to Bruce. “If anyone was gonna blow up Arkham it would be me –” Bruce ran a hand over his face. “And the only reason _he’d_ care about the joint is to kill me. And he knows I’m not there.”

“You want to bomb Arkham? You’re planning to bomb Arkham?”

“I’m not the one with the bombs!”

“Oh my god,” Selina muttered. Alfred and Lucius were talking amongst themselves – Bruce hoped against hope that they were making some headway, at least.

“Gordon,” Bruce cut in, “Please understand, Jerome’s on our side.”

“I find that awfully hard to believe.”

“Yeah, well, you also find it hard to count past ten with your shoes on –”

Gordon’s chair roared against the floor as he stood up and pointed a finger at Jerome’s face. “You shut your goddamn mouth, Valeska.”

“You want me to shut my mouth?” Jerome obliged, with a snapping of his teeth as he tried to bite Gordon’s finger.

“That’s it! This is insane. Jerome Valeska, you’re under –”

“Detective Gordon!” Bruce stood and cut him off before he could finish saying it. “Gotham is in danger. Are you really going to let Jeremiah win while you’re fighting Jerome?”

“I can take them both.”

“Jerome is helping us!”

“Helping? His input makes no sense, he’s just trying to throw us off. You know as well as I do that he’s probably just here to watch us run around.”

“His input is a lot more informed than yours. And,” Bruce snapped, “I don’t appreciate you throwing accusations at Jerome.”

"Accusations? When has he ever done anything but cause chaos and hurt people for fun?"

"When he's not backed into a corner, maybe? When your policy isn't shoot-first-make-excuses-later?"

“This isn’t healthy, Bruce. I’m worried about you.”

“It’s not your place to be.”

“Whose place is it then? The people who are apparently fine with you hanging around with _scum_ like the Valeskas? God forbid, Jerome? Can’t you see this is dangerous?”

“You don’t get to talk about my family like that!” Bruce shouted. His words hit his ears a moment after he’d said them, and he took a slightly-shaky breath. Gordon, too, fell silent in the aftermath of the shouting match.

Lucius cleared his throat. “Mr. Pennyworth and I have been discussing the potential value of going after the detonator, or some kind of map, rather than locating every bomb one by one. Finding Jeremiah might be the best course of action.”

“Yeah, that’s not a bad idea,” Selina said, her voice more serious than usual. She was trying to smooth things over, Bruce knew. “You could track down his phone signal or something.”

“Maybe,” Bruce agreed, tearing his eyes away from Gordon’s. “He’s probably got a lot of defenses, but it’s worth trying.”

A beeping came from Gordon’s chest pocket. He pulled out his phone and turned away to answer it. Bruce took the space to breathe, staring somewhat absently down at the map of Gotham.

“Oh my god.” Gordon snapped his phone shut and turned back to the group, all staring at him.

“What?” Selina asked, impatient.

“Jeremiah just detonated the first bomb. And he’s giving the city six hours to evacuate before he sets off the rest.”

The meeting was civil after that. It lasted long into the night, and by the time they couldn't go on, nobody was quite confident they knew what to do.


End file.
